


Trovommi Amor

by OneMoreAltmer



Series: Dragon Age: Taniva Tabris [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage and Discipline, Brief Torture, F/M, Light Bondage, Mild Kink, Multi, Sex, Threesome - F/F/M, Vaginal Sex, elf angst, nightmare about darkspawn sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-05-13 18:59:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 53
Words: 89,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14754444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneMoreAltmer/pseuds/OneMoreAltmer
Summary: He is an orphan raised by whores and bought by a guild of assassins.  She is an impoverished rape victim whose vengeance leaves her choosing between a death sentence and joining the Grey Wardens.  They'll make a beautiful couple if they can get around each other's defenses.  Oh, and survive the Blight.





	1. Prologue: Journeys End in Lovers Meeting

            Juletta scrubbed at his cheek so hard it was starting to burn.  “Honestly, Zev,” she scolded, though with a good-natured grin.  “I’m starting to think you _want_ the mistress to beat you.  You have to stop doing this, you know.  You waste all the ink.”

            “I’m Dalish,” the boy insisted.

            “You’re Antivan.  And you have to… you have to be at your best today.  People are coming to see you.”

            “To see me?  Why?”

            His favorite “nan,” as the whores had agreed he should call them, squeezed his shoulders and sighed.  “You’re seven now.  So the mistress is going to either find you work or, ah.  Start making you work here.”

            Zevran shrugged.  “So I’ll work here.”

            She grabbed him by the face and looked at him sternly.  “No, you won’t.  My pretty boy will not be a back street whore.”

            “Why not?  You are.”

            She winced.  “Well.  But you’re too young.  Maybe when you’re grown, maybe in one of those pretty rich places closer to the castle.  Not here at seven.  It would ruin you.”

            The cold voice of the mistress rang down the hall.  “They’re here.  Send the boy down.”

            Juletta gave him a quick kiss on the top of his forehead.  “Good luck, Zev.  Do what they say, and you’ll be all right.”  She ruffled his hair and gave him a quick squeeze before shoving him into the hallway to follow the mistress.  It was all a lot of fuss, even for Juletta, and it made him feel as if he was being sent off into the square for execution.

            Three men were waiting in the mistress’s receiving room, all in studded leather armor.  It was obvious even to a boy that the center man was in charge:  he radiated control and menace.  He spoke without looking up at their arrival, casually loosening his gloves to remove them.  “Show me the boy.”

            “Zevran,” the mistress said, nudging him forward.  He stepped as close to the man as he dared and then stood very still.  Such were the manners to which he was trained, and this did not seem to be the time to try bad manners.

            “Well,” the man said, “at least he looks better than the last one you tried to sell me.”

            “You’re lucky I’m offering,” the mistress answered.  “I already have clients asking about him.”

            “Yes, you can see he has the makings of a whore,” said the man, raising Zevran’s chin with one finger.  “Look at the mouth.”  He disdainfully pushed the boy’s face aside.  “Raise your arms.”

            Zevran glanced toward the mistress, who nodded with the glare that usually meant that one misstep would bring down her vengeance.  So he raised his arms, the first in what turned out to be a series of odd poses and contortions he was asked to perform.

            Once he had stopped giving this list of orders, the man nodded and started putting his gloves back on.  “Well, he is agile, and if he’s trainable we can make use of the prettiness.  I’ll give you two hundred and fifty silver.”

            “Too low.  Surely he’s worth four sovereigns.”

            “Three.  Don’t push me further than that.”

            “Three, then.”

            The man grinned down at him, and it was not at all as pleasant as a grin ought to be.  “Ever heard of the Crows, boy?”

            “No.”

            “Heh.  You have now.”

            “You’re going with them, Zevran,” the mistress said.  “You’re to be one of them.  It’s a good chance for you, so mind yourself.  I’ll tell the girls goodbye for you.”

            “Goodbye?”  He was stunned.  “I can’t tell them myself?  When I – when I get my things – ”

            The man slapped him.  “Idiot.  You own nothing.  You are owned.  Now follow, and keep your mouth shut.”

            So he did, and that was the end of being a child.

 

*

 

            In an odd way, she led a sheltered life in the Alienage, early on.  Yes, they were poor, and yes, the humans often disdained them; but Adaia worked hard not to let her feel any of that more than she had to.  Presents materialized on her birthday, and her father would cast strange looks at them but say nothing.  She was never told the story of how Soris and Shianni were orphaned and moved in with her family, but that was when the lessons began, secret stick fights in back alleys and daggers hidden under baseboards.

            _Obedience does not bring safety,_ Adaia would say.  _There are times when safety must be won._

            It was their secret, or so Taniva thought at the time:  even from her cousins, who were “not good with secrets,” and from her father, who would not understand.  It became a cornerstone of the bond between them – mother and daughter picking locks and sharpening steel rather than plaiting each other’s hair.

            But then the food riots began.  Hostilities were magnified, and words like _shem_ and _knife-ears_ were thrown back and forth loudly and often.

            She was thirteen on the day Adaia forbade her and her cousins to leave the house, but went out herself.  They sat with Cyrion around the fire and listened to the rioting outside, Taniva wondering if they were safe but also wondering if she ought to be out there with her mother, using her budding skills for something important – it felt important, everyone else seemed to think it was important.  Something worth fighting for among a people who didn’t like fighting.

            But the noise went on for days, and even when it was gone, Adaia never came home.  She was among the bodies still littering the streets when her hidden neighbors began to emerge again, after the storm was over.  The guards had not troubled themselves with disposing of the elven dead, so the next days were days of finding, wailing, burying, days of stench and disease.

            Safety could not be won.  Safety was a fable.

 

*

 

            _Show nothing.  Be hollow._

            Nature really had designed him better to be a whore, he thought.  Ten years of beatings and grueling training and tiny doses of poison, and he was still wickedly sensitive.  There were days when it was a blessing, when he could slip off and drown the day’s sorrows in drink and sex, and actually have it work, because he had not been deadened to pleasure.

            And then there were days like today.

            Unlike the lashing he’d recently taken, the rack was not a torture that could be ridden through on deep breaths, because the stretching through the chest made more than shallow breathing impossible.  He tried to compensate by imposing a rhythm, taking control over the impulse to pant.  He closed his eyes against his compatriots, his torturers, who had painted themselves up to look Dalish because the Master thought it would be funny.  He was watching from the corner – the man who had taken him from his home, such as it was.  The man for whom he had never dared learn any other name than _Master._

            _Show nothing.  Be hollow._

            Tears were certainly not an option:  that had been beaten out of him years ago.  But today the stakes were higher, and he must not let out so much as a growl.  This was a test of his worthiness, and any sound from him that was not a coherent and appropriately cavalier statement would be failure, and they would simply finish the job of breaking him and leave him in an alley somewhere, crippled or dead.

            It felt like he was being ripped in half, very, very slowly.  And that new sensation might be his right shoulder leaving its socket, although at this point everything hurt enough that it was harder to pinpoint each given injury.

            “Enough,” said the Master’s voice, barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears.  “Take him down and put him back together.”

            That would be the work of days, and painful enough in its own right.  But he was through.  He was a Crow.

 

*

 

            The riots came and went for years, and the Arl’s studied indifference to problems in the Alienage was not helpful in quelling them.  His answer was never to address their concerns so much as to quash their complaints, by force when necessary.

            At eighteen, Taniva was caught in one of the riots.  She hadn’t gone so far as to arm herself:  since her mother’s death, she had let some of her fighting skills lapse, disillusioned with them.  But she had kept up the lockpicking and the stealing, because she had been quick to realize that these skills were the reason why her family suffered less than many when times were worst.  Her mother had taken what they needed from the _shems_ when it could not be bought, and now that job fell to her.

            But rioting meant that the city guard was more watchful and more violent, and rather than being able to take advantage of a day of screaming and confusion in the streets, she was caught along with several of the protesters and dragged off to prison.

            She’d only been in her cell for a few hours when two guards came to escort her out of it.  Perhaps she was being let go, she thought; perhaps the Arl considered his message sent and received, and he was in the mood for clemency.

            Instead, she found herself in a room with three well-dressed men, and with her two guards remaining by the door.  One of the rich men, the apparent leader, strode toward her leering, and touched her hair.  “My, my.  They did tell me you were pretty.”

            She did nothing.  She was too shocked to move.

            He leaned in toward her neck, took a deep breath, chuckled.  “And you’re even relatively clean.  How refreshing.  Let us see if you taste as good as you smell.”

            That seemed to reconnect her mind to her body, and she threw a wild punch toward his chin.  The other men laughed as she continued to struggle, not bothering to step in.  She was rusty, it was as simple as that, and their leader did not need long to get her under control.  Her head slammed painfully against the table where he pinned her down by her throat.

            “Think this through carefully,” he hissed.  “It’s been chaos out there all day.  Maybe you were arrested, but maybe you were _killed._   Choose which.”

            She chose.

            And so she was returned to her home the next day.  Cyrion thanked the Maker; Soris begged her not to be so irresponsible in the future; the neighbors began to decide for certain that she was _trouble, like her mother._   Shianni was the only one she told the truth, and then she slept huddled in her cousin’s arms for weeks.

            After that, she brought out her old, hidden knives.

 

*

            The Crows did actually provide a better life than whoredom could have.  After his formal induction he was allowed to live on his own and spend his payments as he wished – usually it was on armor and weapons and ingredients for his poisons, although he did have a few nice clothes and enough pocket money to periodically buy drinks for someone attractive.

            Still, he was technically a slave, and not even quite the equal of human Crows of his rank.  He was pretty even among his kind, and while that was useful on jobs that required close contact with his targets, it also kept his origin fresh in the Master’s mind, which led to his being referred to most often not as “Zevran” but “The Whore.”  At this point, he was skilled and respected enough to sometimes get away with retorting “Technically, I am the _son_ of a whore,” at least to inferiors.  The Master, of course, could call him whatever he wanted.

            But setting foot in their headquarters was like walking naked into a prison.  A den of trained killers was not a good place to be lovely without someone at one’s back, no matter how skilled one was.

            For that, there was Taliesin.  He’d come to Antiva City as a trade from a cell in Denerim, where his talents were wasted.  The Crows were not important enough in Ferelden to keep their best trapped there for long.  He and Zevran quickly became allies:  Zevran knew Antiva City well and could serve Taliesin as guide; Taliesin looked enough of a ruffian, even among Crows, to prevent unnecessary scrapes between Zevran and his most adamant admirers and enemies (sometimes it was hard to tell one from the other). 

            When Taliesin started wanting to add sexual favors to his end of the bargain, Zevran did not object.  They were friends, as such things went.  They were comfortable in each other’s company, and they both stood to benefit from working together, and that was what passed for trust among assassins.  Anyway, he had done as much for less attractive people, for less gain.

            On this day they had come to be introduced to newly initiated Crows who would be available as underlings and, in a sense, apprentices.  He and Taliesin had risen quickly into the middle ranks, where such things became relevant to them.

            Not that this caused the Master to regard them with much more respect.  They were greeted as “Whore and Dog,” in honor of Taliesin’s Fereldan blood.  Sometimes he would even shorten it to “Whoredog,” but no one else did that, at least not to their faces.

            The one who caught Zevran’s eye, for what he assured himself were legitimate professional reasons, was an elven girl.  She had already learned the arrogant swagger of an experienced Crow, with an extra feminine sway added.  Her smile was calculated, and her dark eyes assessed and accepted him quickly, after which she offered a hand in polite greeting.  “Rinna,” she said.

            That was all the proof he needed that he should be the one to train her.  She was perfectly designed to move in close, to kill with smiles and kisses and poison.  Naturally “the Whore” would be her best instructor.  He argued as much to the Master, and he agreed.

            “Fine.  Whore, Dog, and Bitch.  It’s perfect.  Take her with you, and make sure she reports when she’s supposed to.”

            Taliesin was less convinced, but at first, Zevran did not recognize the jealousy that was already forming behind his eyes.

 

*

 

            Awareness came back slowly, and brought her no good news.

            _Why did you do it, Shianni?_

_I saw your eyes.  I knew it must be him._

            She’d known they were nobles, of course – assumed they were, by their presence in the Arl’s estate and their clothes.  She had not known that their leader was the Arl’s own son until he’d been lying stunned in the dirt with Shianni standing over him, a broken pot in her hand and a look of frozen terror on her face.  Until his henchman had screamed it at both of them as a threat.

            He hadn’t even recognized her.  She’d been just another pretty thing, interfering with his new sport and thus becoming a target herself.  Again.  Just another one of – how many?  How often had he indulged himself in this cruelty?

            And now she was back on his property.  She knew it before she opened her eyes:  she remembered the feel and the smell of the place.  Now he would take his revenge on her and Shianni both, and Soris’s bride, and –

            No.  No, he would not.  She had cleaned away the rust since the last time, and she was ready.

            She lifted her head from the floor at last, eager to draw blood.

 

*

 

            “I will go.”

            “You’re taking the Dog with you, I assume.”

            “No.  I will go alone.”

            The dispatcher looked up at him suspiciously.  “You’re good, but you’re not quite that good.  You’ll need a team, and the Dog knows the region.”

            “This is why I don’t want to take him.  I am… concerned that he may not remain objective in a mission so close to home.”

            That was not technically a lie.  He’d been growing less and less convinced of Taliesin’s assurances that he hadn’t known Rinna was innocent.  Partly because Taliesin kept offering the assurances, sometimes accompanied by attempts at sweetness, which was not his strength.

            Not that it would have changed much.  Not that it would have erased Rinna’s death, or the coldness Zevran had thrown at her in her last moments.  Pointless cruelty, and it was because he had cared _too much_ to let her die with dignity.

            He still cared too much.  Only now he cared too much that she had deserved something better, and no one else knew it.  Only an elf.  Only a Crow.  Only a slave.  A loss to no one.  Perhaps not even to herself.  And the only difference between them was that he was still moving.

            He could put an end to that, but not with Taliesin watching over him.

 

*

 

            She wasn’t sure she trusted the lone woman screaming for them to follow her:  something in her manner was odd.  The rushing back toward the danger rather than pointing them at it and then cowering behind them, for example.  Then again, she seldom trusted any _shem_ on first meeting, now.

            Still, she was unsurprised when the trap closed around them, and her daggers were already drawn when the lead assassin signaled his archers.  The woman raised a staff – a mage.

            By now they had fought together enough to have a mutual sense of how to proceed.  _Take the leader first.  Alistair will hit the mage, and Leliana will start pinning down the archers until Alistair and I can move up the sides and take them out.  Paisan will cover me._   By now she had learned to turn that first cold rush into will instead of fear or rage, and she jogged straight toward her target without hesitation.

            An elf, not like the others.  Daggers raised, like a mirror of herself, except that in his eyes the fight was gone, and in his stance only an echo of what there should have been.  Something had beaten him before they had even arrived.

            It captured her attention, and she aimed to cripple rather than to kill.

  


 

 


	2. Do Not Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva Tabris hates Duncan just slightly less than she hates Vaughan. At least he doesn't have red hair...but Alistair does.

            Sodding _shem._   She didn’t trust him an inch, even if conscripting her into the Wardens had saved her life.  He’d obviously done so for his own reasons, not hers.  Even Valendrian, who was so well-practiced in rolling over, had hesitated a little in handing her over to him.  She was not safe.

            They were walking down the road out of Denerim and into the heart of the country in stony silence.  The sun was already setting when Duncan tried to communicate.  “I worry that you are considering running away.”

            True enough.  She sneered but did not respond.  He tried again.  “You would not be the first conscript to do such a thing.  I must advise you against it.”

            “Why?  Would you hunt me down and kill me?”

            “No, but the Arl of Denerim would.”

            That made her stop walking.  “But he won’t if I’m with you.”

            “He cannot.  Conscription into the Wardens is taken very seriously, and it would be a grave international offense to ignore it.  We are your best protection now.”

            “In public.  Can you keep him from sending someone in secret?”

            Duncan’s face was hard to read:  it was always some degree of somber.  “Ferelden is not known for her assassins, Taniva.  I doubt the Arl has enough influence to hire what he would need for that.”  He scanned the horizon in front of them, which was starting to turn colors, and sighed.  “We should find a spot to make camp before it gets too dark.”

            All the land around them was open and bare, and she didn’t like it at all.  She’d grown up in the city, and so much space and quiet made her feel much too exposed.  For the sake of having an enclosure, she struggled to help Duncan raise his tent, although the process was foreign to her.  Realizing it was the _only_ tent made her alarmed again.

            Her stare must have made Duncan realize the problem.  “I think that I will sleep outside,” he said.  “It’s a lovely night.”  She watched suspiciously as he spread a blanket out on the earth.  He stayed put, though, so after a while she crawled into the tent alone and sat there, knives at the ready.

            The sound of something cooking on the fire woke her up.  She rose from her awkward huddle stiff, sore, and unsure of exactly when she’d fallen asleep.  Also, however, clearly untouched by her human companion overnight.

            She emerged to the sight of Duncan bent over the fire with a skillet; as her tent flap fell shut, he looked up at her and nodded.  “Ah, good, I won’t have to wake you.  Breakfast is nearly ready.  We should eat and be on our way:  there is still a long way to go.”  He pulled out a bit of bacon and held it out to her – in much the same manner, she was keenly aware, as one might for a dog one was trying to befriend but was not quite sure was tame.  She made a point of taking it from his hand in a calm and civilized manner.  She _wasn’t_ tame, but that didn’t mean she was rabid.

            That day passed quietly.  Duncan was not much more forthcoming than she was:  all she knew by evening was that they were to meet with other Wardens in Ostagar, and that this was where her formal induction into the order would take place.  She had hours to muse over it, and her feelings only became more and more ambivalent.  True, she’d been saved from probable execution, but a forced promise of lifelong service felt suspiciously like slavery.  And she might never see Shianni again, just when her cousin would need her – and it was because she’d avenged them, and because now she was going out to see the world like she’d always said she wanted.

            Maybe it was a bad thing to be thinking about when she tried to go to sleep.  Or it was too soon to sleep peacefully with a _shem_ so nearby, even though she kept her knives with her as she laid down.

            _His friends laugh at the red lines her nails have made across his face, but Vaughan is scowling.  “If you can’t hold the bitch down, tie her!”  One of them – perhaps the darker-haired one, she isn’t sure – improvises bindings out of her torn clothes as the others pin her in place.  The table is cold, and faintly sticky from spilled liquor or... she does not want to think about the other possibilities.  She has little time left to think regardless._

_Despite their warnings, she cannot keep herself from struggling by instinct.  They slap her and bash her head against the table until she is still; then her legs are being pulled so far apart that her hips ache._

_Vaughan is all smiles again, and it is worse than his anger.  “Better.  Now that you’ve learned some manners, I am going to ruin you for your own kind.  Enjoy real cock while you have it.”  She doesn’t:  her body keeps fighting him in ways she can’t control, and every thrust feels like ripping –_

“Stop.  Taniva, stop.  You are all right now.”

            She was screaming and thrashing against them – no, him.  Only one man, sitting astride her and holding her down by the wrists.  She kicked and growled but could not buck him loose.

            “Taniva,” he said insistently, and it started to register that the deep voice was not one of those from her dream.  This was Duncan.  “You were dreaming.  Do you understand?”

            She glared at him.  “Yes.  I’m awake.  _Get off of me!_ ”  As he obligingly moved to one side, she rolled the other way, came up onto her knees, and drew both knives to brandish between her and the Warden.  “What the fuck made you think you should come in here and _touch_ me?”

            He raised his hands in supplication.  “The way you were flailing, I was afraid you would hurt yourself.  Or cut a hole in my tent.”

            He hadn’t hurt her, hadn’t undressed her.  Even so, the panicked rage with which she had woken up was not subsiding quickly, and she kept her knives raised as she tried to calm down.  “Don’t ever do that again.  I sleep armed.”

            He settled into a more comfortable sitting position and sighed.  “Forgive my saying so, but if you are prone to nightmares, perhaps you shouldn’t.”

            She shouldn’t have been ‘prone to nightmares.’  She had finally stopped having them several months ago, and she’d hoped never to have them again.  Her near miss and rescue of Shianni must have retriggered them, and there was no knowing how long they’d take to get rid of this time, when she was out in the world alone.

            She didn’t want to talk about any of that.  Instead she frowned, “Sure, I shouldn’t keep anything on hand to defend myself when I’m vulnerable.  Just because I’m an elf woman going into an encampment of armed, worked-up _shems_ is no reason to be concerned about my safety, is it?”

            “Taniva.  I understand that Vaughan and his friends were... abusive to your community.  I may have underestimated how severe the problem was.”  He winced at whatever turn his thoughts took, and went on after a brief silence.  “All the same I am asking you to consider the possibility that _all_ humans are not Vaughan.  If you cannot believe I am decent, then believe that Wardens are rare and precious in Ferelden, and I protect my own.”

            That was consistent with having gone to the effort of conscripting her, at least.  There would have been easier ways of acquiring more compliant sex toys.  She lowered her daggers to her sides, tired.  “Why did you choose me?”

            “Because you are as ferocious as your mother was.”  He backed toward the tent flap.  “I will leave you to your rest now.  I hope that the rest of your night is peaceful.”

            She was exhausted and lonely and frustrated with her own weakness and... after a few minutes sleep won out.

            They did not speak again of the incident the rest of the way to Ostagar.  The next time the subject arose was not until she found herself hissing at the King of Ferelden that she’d killed the Arl of Denerim’s son for being a rapist.  To her surprise, his blankly cheerful face crumpled in horror.  “What?”

            Duncan smoothed the waters quickly, but there was still real hurt in Cailan’s eyes as he promised to investigate the treatment of the Alienage.  The senior Warden shifted the subject back to talk of the battle, which on one hand was slightly insulting though logical enough, and on the other revealed an unpleasantly naive trust on the King’s part in the combined glory of himself and the Wardens.

Taniva was unsure where, if anywhere, her sympathies lay when Duncan led her away toward the bridge leading to the soldiers’ encampment.  “I would like you to be more thoughtful in when and how you reveal that part of your past,” he frowned.

            “Why should I protect his honor by being silent?”

            “You told the King you avenged your cousin.”  He stopped walking to reflect on that.  “I wonder if that is the full extent of it.”

            She could feel her face turning red.  “Of course it is!” she hissed.

            He merely raised a hand for emphasis.  “But you see how it invites further questions that you clearly do not welcome.  It exposes a weakness, a thing I would not think you would want to do, as little as you trust humans.  Besides, anyone who knew that much and your name could find out more about Shianni than you might actually want to reveal without her permission.”

            Suddenly she felt sick.  “You’re right.  Maker, you’re right, I’ve exposed her to – ”

            “Don’t be too hard on yourself.  The King is a good-hearted man, if a bit... idealistic.  I only mention it as something to be aware of in the future.”

            She nodded but continued to kick herself, only half listening to Duncan’s instructions.  Camp.  Other recruits.  Alistair.

            The other recruits did not leave Taniva feeling flattered that she had been chosen.  She found Daveth first, next to the bigoted smith with whom she nearly got into a brawl.  Daveth had no sooner failed in his smarmy overtures toward a female soldier than he started talking about how surprised he was that a female elf should become a Warden.  Jory was loitering near one of the Chantry sisters, looking confused and useless.  She sent both of them back to Duncan without enthusiasm, grimly imagining a future in which they were to be her companions.

            Alistair, the other full Warden who was to attend her Joining, she found arguing petulantly with one of the mages.  Another case in which she did not know which to give her sympathy, although Alistair at least showed a glimmer of humor.  As the mage stormed away, the young man started to greet her with sarcasm as well, but stopped himself short.  “Wait – you must be the recruit.  I’m sorry.  Duncan told me to expect you.  Although you’re not exactly what I expected.”

            She’d heard this song from Daveth already.  She crossed her arms at him to keep from doing worse.  “Yes, I know.  Breasts and knife-ears.  Apparently they interfere with my being a Warden somehow.”

            “What?  No, that’s not what I meant!  It was an elf who killed the archdemon in the last Blight, actually.”

            She lit up for a moment with genuine interest.  “Was it?”  Why had she never heard that story in the Alienage?  Were there any other lost elven heroes people never talked about?  Not two weeks ago she’d been forced to invent one for some children she’d found playing in an alley.

            “Granted I haven’t known any women who were Wardens,” he went on.  “But I’m sure they can be.  I’m sure you _will_ be.  I mean, if you – yes, of course you will.”

            Well played, she thought, not a bit uncertain-sounding.  “If I what?”

            “Don’t mind me.  I say a lot of things I probably shouldn’t.”

            “Yes, I can see that.”  If she was strong enough?  If she didn’t run away?  If what?

            He looked embarrassed and disappointed in a way that cut short her anger.  Less like the smug _shems_ she was used to than like an injured puppy – if anyone, it reminded her somehow of Cailan.  Something around the eyes that made them seem innocent of fault.  Or else it was the artlessness they seemed to share.

            “There, I’ve offended you,” he was saying.  “I really, really didn’t mean to.”

            She found herself putting on a forced smile.  “No, I know I should give you a chance.  I just haven’t had much experience with _she_ \- with humans being friendly.”

            He beamed at her forgiveness.  “Neither have I!  We’ll have that in common.”

 


	3. A Question of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair tries to make some headway toward befriending the new recruit before the Joining enrages her again.

Alistair fell quickly into the habit of walking behind her, not ahead.

            Not right away, of course, since he was ostensibly her senior – which was a novel and slightly disconcerting thought.  This was his first time in such a position, since he’d been a Gray Warden for less than a year himself.  He took the lead walking back to the Warden’s camp, that being a simple enough task not to worry about going very far amiss.

            When he turned around to face her after reaching the campfire, she startled, frowned at him, then looked past him at Duncan as if it hadn’t happened.  Odd, but fair enough, once.  Duncan explained the test to the recruits, asked Alistair to watch over them as expected, and also sent him after old treaties that had been left behind at one of their abandoned strongholds.

            And then, as they were walking toward the fence separating the encampment within the ruins of Ostagar from its exposure to the Korcari Wilds, Taniva startled at him again, jumping back from him as he turned.

            He’d been honest when he told her it didn’t matter to him that she was elven and female, but if she turned out to be _skittish_ , that wasn’t going to bode well for her at all.  In fact it would cause him to wonder why Duncan chose her in the first place.  But doubting Duncan would be an alien feeling, so he resisted it.  There must be something else going on.  “Are you all right?” he asked her.

            “Of course I am.”

            “It’s just that I seem to keep startling you.”

            She gave him what was _almost_ a sulky, defensive glare, but quickly reined it in, casting her eyes down at his feet.  “I don’t like your hair.”

He had no idea how to respond to that, so he echoed her like an idiot.  “You don’t like my _hair?_ ”

“It’s too red.  Look, let’s just get this done.”  She hurried past him through the gate, leaving him to walk alongside Daveth, stewing in his bewilderment.

“But my hair’s not red, is it?” he asked the rogue.  “I’ve never thought of it as red.”  Daveth shrugged and chuckled at him.

That was when the tainted wolves and darkspawn started to appear, and that in turn was when it became clear to Alistair why Taniva had been chosen.  In real combat there was no startle, no hesitation whatsoever – just a grim, determined sneer and a flashing of knives.  Unlike the others, she also showed no hesitation in collecting blood samples from the fallen darkspawn as was required for the ritual, nor for that matter in taking anything else useable she found on the bodies.

Daveth was pragmatic about accepting the items she gave him, but Jory was more squeamish.  “I don’t know.  Isn’t this kind of... disgusting?”

“We don’t all get our equipment handed to us for free, Ser Knight,” Daveth snickered, and that earned him an empathetic grin from Taniva.

It was a surprisingly lovely smile, and Alistair wanted one for himself, but had no idea how to get it.  All he knew was that he had offensive _hair._

After their first combat, Taniva seemed to instinctively take the lead, and Alistair fell back and let her have it.  Technically, he was only along to keep an eye on them anyway, and this gave him a chance to observe all three of them more closely.  Before long he concluded that, counter to his earlier impression, Taniva was the one he was the _least_ concerned about.  Even though she did go off abruptly at one point to pick flowers.

When they found the place where the treaties should have been, Morrigan found them.  A woman of the wilds with spiky black hair and strange golden eyes.  She was dark, and seductive, and exotic, and – and _horribly_ rude, and reeking of magic.  This time it was Daveth who balked and Jory who had to talk him down.  Alistair certainly couldn’t:  the Templar training went too deep for that, and the idea of her living out here free to do whatever horrible thing she wanted with her powers made him itch.

And that was to say nothing of her _mother_ , a creepy old woman who spoke in riddles, cackled madly, exuded enough power to make him feel like an insect, and handed them the treaties with her assurances that she’d kept them safe for just this occasion.

Taniva spoke with both of them as if they were not only ordinary people, but the most pleasant ones she’d met so far.  Alistair started to worry about her again.  Still, it did get them the treaties, and they were able to go back to Duncan with everything he’d requested.

Before they actually reached the Wardens’ area, though, Taniva swerved aside and started talking to a man who worked at the mabari kennel.  As Alistair came close enough to hear, Taniva was giving him the flowers she’d picked, and he was making happy noises about treatment and full recovery.

She nodded, spun, and almost ran into Alistair, who was startled to see how relaxed her face was.

“That was what you were doing?  Getting medicine for a sick dog?”  He grinned a little, just for the second between when he realized he’d gotten a glimpse of her soft side and when she frowned at him for noticing it.

“Why wouldn’t I care about a sick dog?  Should I hate dogs?”

Maker’s breath, he wasn’t going to be able to live with someone this irritable.  “Would you do me a favor?  Can you try to imagine for a moment that I _don’t_ actually hate elves with every fiber of my being?”

She stared at him silently for a moment before responding, and then it was with a sigh and a weary look.  “I’m probably not being fair.  It’s just... you remind me of someone I... didn’t like.”

“Am I really that annoying?”

She shifted her weight.  “It’s just looks.  I’m sure I’ll get used to you.”  Her eyes started to avoid his.  “I didn’t choose this, you know.  I mean, I suppose my other option was much worse.  I suppose I should be grateful.  I just – this is all alien to me, and I’m not used to being able to trust people like you, let alone _having_ to – ”

He hadn’t really considered that before.  Stupid.  He knew that city elves often had difficult lives, and judging by her skill with daggers and Duncan’s recruitment of her, she’d had it rougher than some.  He laid what he meant as a comforting hand on her shoulder.

She slapped it away vehemently, glaring for a moment before she seemed to reconsider.  “Don’t do that,” she said quietly, looking less angry.  “Don’t touch me when I don’t expect it.”

“Sorry.”  He covered his growing distress with a helpless chuckle.  “I seem to be endearing myself to you in every way possible, don’t I?”

“I know you didn’t mean it.  I... can see that you didn’t mean it.  I’ll try to be less jumpy.  I’m not always like this.”  He caught another glimpse of something vulnerable and non-hostile in her eyes.  “A lot has happened lately.”

He didn’t even know yet whether she was going to survive the Joining.  Realizing that the first thing he was about to do with her new glimmer of trust was to surprise her with a disgusting and potentially lethal ritual made him hate himself a little.

He put on a smile for her that he couldn’t fully mean.  “We’ll sort ourselves out, I’m sure.  But right now, Duncan is waiting.”

She nodded and turned toward the place where Duncan was, and Alistair followed behind her, because it allowed him to pretend that he wasn’t the one putting her in harm’s way.

But there was no denying that he was at least an accomplice.  He was the one who intoned the words of memorial for those the Joining killed rather than transforming as Duncan raised the cup.  Daveth went first, bravely, but almost immediately he started to choke, and though his eyes went white for the first stage of the change, he fell to the ground dead.  Jory panicked and drew his blade against Duncan, who was forced to kill him – Alistair hated that, even knowing why no recruit must ever leave the Joining without completing it.

Taniva’s features passed through the horror and rage that were to be expected given the failure of the others; but by the time Duncan offered the cup to her, those had vanished, replaced not by courage but by weary resignation.  By fatalism.  She’d been unpleasantly shocked and deprived of options so many times that hope of escape abandoned her easily.

But there had to be a strength beneath that, something more than ill temper that held her together, because she passed through the spasms and screaming visions still whole.  She was the one that lived.  She was the one who struggled back up into consciousness, found Duncan and Alistair hovering over her, and rewarded them with a rueful, accusatory look.

When she refused both their offered hands to stand up on her own, his fear was confirmed:  whatever shred of trust he’d started to build in their conversation, it was gone, and he would have to start over again.  That meant continuing to walk behind her rather than ahead of her, so that she could feel that at least some choices were hers, and so that she would not be offended by his hair.


	4. Fear and Lothering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva acquires a witch, a dog, a Chantry girl, and a qunari. The first of numerous quarrels over dinner is had.

            Taniva added the dead bandits to her mental tally of recent events and accomplishments.  _Found out I was engaged to a stranger.  Found out I was raped by the Arl’s son.  Got kidnapped.  Saw fiancé die in front of me.  Killed Vaughan a little too late to spare Shianni.  Killed those other bastards, who weren’t the same ones I remember, which means they’re still out there somewhere.  Got arrested.  Got sold to the Wardens.  Yelled at the King of Ferelden for no reason.  Yelled at both of my senior Wardens for no reason.  Killed darkspawn.  Drank their blood, passed out, had nightmares about screaming dragons.  Got betrayed in battle and stranded in the Wilds with the only other survivor, who insisted we must save the country.  Was adopted against my will by a witch and a dog._ She gave an absent-minded scratch to Paisan’s ears when she reached that.  _Killed bandits for trying to keep me out of the town it was Morrigan’s idea to come to anyway._

All in all, an eventful couple of weeks, in mostly awful ways.  She could theoretically count it as a positive that she was free of the oppressive quiet of traveling with only Duncan, except that she’d replaced it with Alistair and Morrigan’s constant bickering.  Alistair was uncomfortable with taking a witch as a traveling companion, and Morrigan seemed to just hate everything, particularly everything about Alistair.  They fought about mages, about Templars, about talking too much, about not talking enough.  It was actually _worse_ than listening to her cousins.

            Just now they were fighting about where to go next.  Morrigan wanted to go straight to Denerim and confront Loghain outright, blissfully unaware that it was the last place in the world Taniva wanted to be at the moment; Alistair wanted Redcliffe, where some arl he trusted would somehow make everything right.  Arls being so helpful that way.

            “Oh, fuck all,” she snapped, turning on her heel to face them both.  “Just – stop it, both of you.  I’m leading, right?  That means it’s my decision.”

            “Have you decided?” Alistair asked politely.  He seemed determined to kill her with kindness, especially now that Duncan was dead and she was his only compatriot.

            “Yes,” she lied.  “First, let’s see what we can find out here, and get some provisions.”

            She learned several things, none of which pleased her.  First, that her reward for helping a stray child was to learn that “Dad says elves are mean, but you’re not.”  Second, that Loghain’s men were already busy spreading the rumor that it was the Wardens who had betrayed Cailan, not him.  And third, that the second meant that _shem_ soldiers no longer had to know she’d killed a noble to want her dead on sight.

            She would have been happy to grace the men in the tavern with a fight immediately, but a local Chantry sister decided to try to intervene.  And then, after the fight started anyway and Taniva had the upper hand, the fool woman tried _again_ , interposing herself between the Wardens and the soldiers.

            “You have proven yourself,” she said in a strange, lilting accent.  “They are no longer a threat.”

            “And I intend to make sure they are never a threat again.  If I let them go, they would report to Loghain.”

            “I don’t want to see people killed!”

            It was the wrong time for a full verbal reply to that, and Taniva didn’t want to shove aside a Chantry sister if she didn’t have to.  “Then don’t look,” she snarled.

            When the sister instead chose to help them kill the remaining soldiers, Taniva was completely bewildered.  Once the threat had passed, she was free to comment.  “ _What_ in the world are you trying to do?  What is it you want?”

            The sister’s already pouty mouth played to its strengths.  “I am trying to help you.  The Maker wants me to do it.  He sent me a sign!”

            That stopped Taniva short.  “The Maker.  Sent you a sign.”  That was fantastic.  She didn’t know whether she even believed in the Maker, let alone in signs, and she also wasn’t sure what to make of the priestess, sane or otherwise.  Historically, it was the Chantry’s fault that there was even such a thing as an Alienage; but on the other hand, within her own lifetime, Chantry sisters were the only humans that occasionally expressed concern about how elves were treated.

            Alistair and the old witch Flemeth had both said she was going to need _armies._   Could she really afford to turn people away?  Could an eccentric priestess really be worse company than Morrigan?  It hardly even seemed to be a question, since the woman was nearly as firm in her determination as the dog had been.

            And all this time she had been babbling cheerfully about her faith and her calling to help against the Blight, and Taniva hadn’t been listening.  “Fine,” she sighed.  “What are we to call you, then?”

            “Leliana.”

            So there was another member of their little party.  Morrigan was greatly displeased:  relentless good cheer and faith in the Maker offended her nearly as much as traveling with a Templar.  Taniva quickly started leaving her in charge of their belongings while the rest of them dealt with minor local issues in exchange for money and goods.  That kept things much quieter.

            However, the witch was with them when they discovered the cage with the giant in it.  He’d killed an entire family, Leliana said, and the Chantry mother had left him in this cage to starve to death – or, things being as they were, to be killed by the invading darkspawn.  He was a massive, scowling thing, and not eager to speak with them, either.  Other than expressing surprise at being addressed civilly, he did little more than answer yes or no.

            No, he hadn’t resisted his arrest, but yes, he had killed an entire family.

            And yet Leliana entreated her for mercy, and _Morrigan_ called on her to admire a “powerful creature” and spare it a cruel death.  And given that she herself had been recruited out from under a death sentence, she found herself agreeing to intervene on his behalf.

             Back they went to the Chantry, Taniva wondering how she was going to sell such a request.  _Granted I’m a knife-eared stranger and murderer of nobles, and he’s a qunari who just committed a massacre, but would you mind giving me custody of him anyway?_   No.  _Please, ma’am, I’ve got seven children by ‘im, and four of them sick._   Unlikely.  _Hand over the qunari or I’ll kill these orphans._   Too drastic.

            As it happened, Leliana proved useful, since she had been working at the Lothering Chantry.  The Mother accepted her assurance that the release was necessary and gave them the key.  So, good:  one companion she wasn’t sure she wanted had made it easier to get another companion she was even less sure she wanted.

            His expression was no friendlier when she opened the door to his cage.  He only said that he was Sten of the Beresaad.  “I will fight for you against the darkspawn, and that will be my atonement.”

            Alistair tried to shake his hand, and Morrigan gave him a flirty look:  he ignored both.

            “No, no, don’t thank me,” Taniva mumbled to herself.  “Your smiling face is thanks enough.”

            “Are you well?” Leliana asked Sten.  “Do you need something to eat?”

            “Your people have not fed me in twenty days.  What do you think?”

            “I think you should be polite to the people who are saving your life,” Taniva answered.

            “It was a foolish question.”

            “Right, then!” Alistair chirped, eager to lighten the mood.  “Dinner it is.  Morrigan, it’s your turn to cook.”

            “What?” the witch frowned.  “’Tis not my turn.  I cooked last night.”

            “Trust me, everyone will be happier if it’s your turn and not mine.”

            “Oh, ‘tis _your_ turn.  That explains it.  Perhaps it would be best for us all if we gave the priestess your turn.  Or Paisan.”

            “Do you like Orlesian food?” Leliana asked Morrigan.  “I don’t mind cooking, but I don’t think we have enough butter to make proper Orlesian food.”

            Sten turned his attention to Taniva.  “Does your party make all of its decisions this efficiently?”

            She bristled.  “They are not _my_ party.”

            “Then you have no leader?  And yet you are the force your country sets against the Blight.  I am surprised that Ferelden managed to break free of Orlais.”

            The last thing she needed was for this huge... _thing_ to decide that no one was in charge.  “Fine.  They are my party.”  She turned and waved an arm at the others in what she hoped was a commanding manner.  “Leliana can cook tonight.  If you can’t get butter, improvise.”

            Fortunately, they all went along with her.


	5. The Board is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran's meeting with Arl Howe and Teyrn Loghain, and a few suicidal musings.

            “So they sent me an elf?”  The old man’s eyes moved up and down his body slowly, and one corner of his mouth quirked up slightly.  “Interesting.”

            “Isn’t it?” Zevran drawled.  “The prettiness only costs you extra if you touch it.  You are which one, Howe or Loghain?”

            “ _Arl_ Howe.  I will take you to our regent for your briefing.”

            Zevran followed him across the castle, making notes in his head about the first of his two employers.  _Late middle age.  Ambitious beyond his own skill and birth.  Sadistic.  I was probably his idea.  He would tolerate sexual overtures from a man he thought he could dominate._

            He would be wrong in Zevran’s case, of course; but sometimes it proved important to know how to get a victim _or_ a client thinking with the wrong head.  One never knew what turn events might take.

            Loghain’s back was turned to them, so Zevran’s first impression was only of black hair and broad shoulders.  “My lord,” Howe said in the simpering voice Zevran was already coming to dislike, “I have brought you something.”

            Zevran made the usual bow and salutation.  “The Antivan Crows send their regards.”

            “An assassin,” Loghain snarled over his shoulder, his voice much richer and more commanding than his lackey’s.

            “Against enemies you need dead, yes,” Howe intoned.  “Obviously soldiers are not having the desired effect.”

            Zevran contributed another saying common to the trade.  “Against armies, send armies.  Against heroes, send assassins.”

            Loghain graced them with a half-turn, making his striking blue eyes visible.  “I did not want to resort to something like this.”

            “You cannot allow them to wander loose across Ferelden,” Howe said.  “They will try to raise resistance against you.  They may even go directly to Orlais for help.”

            “We have cut off that road already.  Still, you make a point.”  He sighed and turned the rest of the way toward them, and Zevran took his measure.  _Middle aged.  Military man, probably a good one.  Grim and tired.  He could be quite handsome if he remembered what handsomeness was for, but he has forgotten.  Difficult to seduce.  It’s too bad._

            “I was told there were two targets,” Zevran said, “both Gray Wardens.  You realize that this will be expensive, yes?”

            “Yes,” Loghain sighed.  “One is an elf girl.  Dark hair.”  He made vague gestures around his own face.  “Pretty.  Rather assertive for one of your people.  The other – ”  Here he hesitated, and dropped his eyes before he went on.  Interesting.  “The other is a young man, nearly my size, reddish-brown hair.  On first impression he is something of an oaf, but it may be misleading, if he takes after – at any rate, they are both Wardens.  Assume that they are capable of defending themselves.”  Zevran nodded.  “Rendon, where did the scouts last see them?”

            “They were headed northwest.  Toward Orlais.”

            “They’d expect an easier passage due north if that was their goal.  They’d be headed for boats, not mountains.  Where, then?  They can’t be expecting help from Orzammar.  The Tower?”

            “Mages, yes?” Zevran asked.  “Powerful allies, if they can get them.”

            Loghain nodded, looking thoughtful.  “But it’s odd.  I would have expected him to run back to Eamon.  And he was a Templar – well, perhaps that’s it.  Perhaps it’s the Templars he means to turn to for help.”

            The man was familiar to him, then.  “What else can you tell me about them?”

            “The man’s name is Alistair, and he grew up in Redcliffe.”  He fixed on Zevran with an intense gaze that made him even sorrier he judged the man asexual.  “If you planned to try an ambush, that is where I would expect him to go next.”

            “Good to know.  When the job is finished, you will send the other half of the payment to the master you contacted before, plus my expenses.  You will not see me again.”

            Or alternately, Zevran would manage to get himself killed in the line of duty, his master would have to do without the rest of the money, and _no one_ would see him again.  That was actually his preference, but of course it would not do to say so.

            Sadly, that also meant it would not do to be too obvious by going after them completely alone, especially after Howe offered assistance in finding whatever disreputable sorts he might need.  The man knew just where to find everything illegal or unsavory, which was consistent with Zevran’s estimation of him.  Fine, then:  a smirking mage, and some archers.  He was unlikely to find himself emotionally invested in whether a crew of strangers lived or died under his direction.

            He was _always_ too quick to invest emotionally in his cohorts:  that was precisely what had gotten him here, looking to die because one of his favorite lovers had betrayed the other to death, and he had been a party to it.  He played it safe by talking directly only to the smirking mage, who managed to irritate him despite her pretty legs.

            In fact, in the end, he let her do a great deal of the planning, which was how he found himself surrounded by ill-concealed archers at a turn in the road.  It was not at all his preferred way of doing things, which he supposed would improve his chances of getting killed.  Actually, if anything, it reminded him of the kind of plan Taliesin would come up with and Zevran would have to talk him out of, which was worth a bitter laugh.

            He wondered how long it would take Taliesin to figure out where he had gone and what he meant to do.  The poor possessive lout.

            Despite his death wish, he found himself pondering what he would have done if he had been taking the assignment more seriously.  Infiltration had always been his preference, especially once he’d decided to take his reputation as “the Whore” as a strength rather than a weakness.  A lovely elf was welcome everywhere, and a killing blow was more satisfying when delivered from up close.

            Perhaps he would have been happier if he really had been a whore.  Or a spy, or a pirate.  Or a wine-making monk, as he’d briefly imagined as a child – well, no, because monks were celibate.  Ah, well, there was little point in imagining such things now.  His life belonged to the Crows, just like Rinna’s had, and the only way to be rid of them was to die.


	6. Miscalculations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You would think a desire demon would know better than to use Duncan to tempt Taniva Tabris. You would be wrong. On the other hand, Alistair's visions soften her stance a bit.

            Everything looked odd.  Hazy.  Bright.  Taniva looked around her, frowning.  All this empty space, floor without a ceiling.  It wasn’t even familiar.

            She started to wander, feeling more and more uncomfortable.  Not only was it unfamiliar, it was also sort of – she didn’t seem to actually get anywhere.  Wait, no, there was one set of steps leading upward to what looked like more of the same.  Since it was the only change she saw on offer, she went up the stairs.

            The space was the same, but here at least there were people.  Three male _shems_ , well dressed.  All it needed was a ceiling and a table.  She bit her lip against the rush in her body that wanted to make her panic, drawing her knives instead, marking where all three were in relation to her.  At least they weren’t bunched together.

            No red hair.  In fact, as she stalked carefully toward the one in the center, she realized that he was Duncan.  Odd.  It didn’t feel as if she ought to have expected to see him, though she was vague on why.

            It also seemed wrong the way he _smiled._   “Good, you’re awake!  How are you enjoying Weisshaupt?”

            She lowered her hands but did not put away her blades.  “I don’t know what wise-hopped means, so I couldn’t tell you.”

            Duncan had a low, rolling laugh.  “This is the home of our order, Taniva.  Now that the Blight is over – ”

            “What?  I don’t remember that happening.  We’ve... we’ve barely started.”  Her head hurt a little.  “In fact, didn’t you – ”

            “You really don’t remember anything, do you?  I’m afraid you may never recover all of your memory, after that awful blow you took to the head.  But yes, the Blight is over, and we are at peace.  There is no more need for us in Ferelden.”

            That sidetracked her for a moment from the thought she had started to pursue.  “So you have no more need for _me._   Does that mean I’m free to go?”

            Duncan’s smile went just a shade false.  “Why would you want to go?  It’s beautiful here, and quiet.”

            The alarm was rising in her again, now because of the growing sense of wrongness.  “You should know why.  You _would_ know, except that – ”  She raised her daggers again as she remembered.  “Except that you’re dead.”

            The deep voice that was a little less like Duncan’s than it had been growled in disapproval.  “I try to give you peace, and you throw it back in my face.  Fine.  We will do it the hard way.”

            She was whirling furiously to ward off all three men while she tried to think.  Was _she_ dead?  Was this some sort of dreadful afterlife meant to punish her for... for _what?_   What had she ever done that hadn’t been necessary?

            The fireball she dodged hit Duncan, and she took advantage of the confusion to rush the mage, sweeping her right hand low to cut deep into his inner thigh.  As he roared and wilted in pain, she spun behind him and stabbed him in the back.

            The mage was dead, which meant that she wasn’t.  But this place was not normal, and this specter of Duncan – the Fade?  Why would she be in the Fade?

            “Duncan” charged at her, and she jumped and twisted just out of reach of his sword, swinging a dagger as she passed in what proved to be a vain hope of cutting his side.  She did manage to turn more quickly than he did, and so got a good swipe at his back before she had to defend herself again.

            There’d been a demon, hadn’t there?  She seemed to remember – that had to be what that hideous, twisted thing that suddenly reawakened in her consciousness was.  They’d been about to fight it, and then... and then she was here.  The demon had brought her.  Was he the fake Duncan?

            Sudden pain in the back of her knee.  Curse it – she needed to keep “Duncan” between her and the archer, at least.  Or else – she sprinted toward the man who had shot her as he reached for his next arrow, and was able to kill him before he could realize what had happened and change weapons.  She turned from that just in time to take a ferocious cut to her shoulder instead of her neck.

            Strangely, she barely felt it:  her focus was all on the fact that she was inside the reach of his sword.  She flailed with the injured arm to cut across his throat, and at the same time drove the dagger in her strong hand into his belly.  _That_ stopped him short.

            It did not get her out of the Fade.  Vexed, she did what she could to bandage her own wounds, even though the cut began to sing cruelly of how much it intended to hurt, soon.  Still in the Fade.  How was she to get out?  And where were the others?  Nothing had even changed except for a low, glowing pedestal, which she cautiously approached to investigate.

            And then she was somewhere else.

            Somewhere else still in the Fade, sadly.  Now there was a somber, quiet mage asking her how she had escaped.  She was sorely tempted to cut him down on sight, but he did not attack; indeed his eyes seemed almost empty of life, let alone aggression.  So she relaxed enough to listen to him tell her that this web had been woven for mages and Templars, and it took several demons to sustain it, only one of which had been masquerading as Duncan.  She would have to kill all of them to get out, and to do that, she would have to find them all and find ways to slip through their defenses.  He assured her that she would never be able to do it.

            She would not be in the Fade at all if she were not the sort to try.

            Much of what was required, and of what the mage must have lacked, was persistence.  (Or _stubbornness,_ as her father had more usually called it.)  The few places she could reach at first were all blocked – by fire, by unopenable doors, or by simple dead ends.  She had to search, and of course to fight:  she also had to discover that there were powers the spirit could acquire in the Fade, and to pry their secrets out of those who were not demons.  As a mouse, she could pass through wee tunnels under the walls; as a ghost, she could pass through ghostly doors; as a fire spirit, she could pass through and throw flame; as a golem, she could break through doors.

            None of which she found pleasant, really.  It was as well she had not been born with the talent for dealing with the Fade, and spirits, and magic.  She wanted to be done with them.

            As she progressed, she learned that the others had been brought into the Fade as well, and were faring worse against their own little temptations.  To be fair, they at least made more sense than confronting Taniva with Duncan, or so she thought.  Leliana had wished herself back into the Chantry, just as Taniva had been thinking she should do since the instant she volunteered herself into the party.  Wynne had fallen into guilt-ridden mourning for her fallen brothers, which was understandable; she also lectured Taniva sternly for dishonoring them, which was less tolerable.  The solution was the same in both cases:  Taniva had to kill the demons deluding them, and once she had done so, her party members vanished.

            Of course.  _They_ were gone at once, and _she_ had to run through every corner of every demonic citadel.

            Alistair’s delusion looked obvious enough as well, as she approached.  A woman was standing nearby as he watched, with more than the usual vapidity, several children playing across the surrounding farmland.  Wife and kids.  It was quite wholesome, which was what she was beginning to expect of him.  His build and her initial impression that he’d been well-born aside, he was really not much like her image of cruel, noble _shems_ any more than he was like dumb, violent peasant _shems._   Perhaps, if anything, he was a little like Soris.  Well-meaning enough, but a bit softer than she’d had to become.

            The thought affected her approach.  “Taking a break, are we?” she called as she walked toward him.

            His eyes looked through her for a moment before they looked _at_ her, but then he smiled.  “Oh, it’s you!  I’m glad you’re here.  I wanted to you meet my sister Goldanna and her children.”

            “Your _sister?_ ”  That wasn’t what she’d expected.  And it was even more like Soris, who had always been so dependent on Taniva and Shianni that he seemed to barely notice anyone else.  Taniva had been annoyed and restless when she learned she was to be married off; when it happened to Soris, he’d been _terrified._

            Alistair was completely wrapped up in his illusion; he _wanted_ it.  Wanted his strong sister watching out for him, and instead Taniva had to drag him back to the Wardens and the Blight.  The instinct calling her to take him on as a surrogate cousin was hard to resist.

            So she crossed her arms at him.  “Don’t be an idiot.  This isn’t real, you know!  And it isn’t you.  Standing here in a field gaping when you’re supposed to be working.  You do remember what you _do,_ right?”

            “What I – I do something...?”  He frowned a little.  But “Goldanna” had had enough, and while Alistair wondered his way loose of her snares, she attacked them both.  She wasn’t particularly strong, through:  she’d just been accurate, was all.

            Like the others, Alistair vanished, but not for long.  All his subordinates gone, the demon who had caught them revealed himself, and all three of her companions appeared to fight him together.  He changed his shape repeatedly to repel them, but in the end they killed him, and were back at last in the Tower.

            That wasn’t the end of the nonsense, but on the positive side, there were a number of valuable whatnots to be salvaged and sold to her dwarven hangers-on later.  Alistair thought to complain about the repeated delay as she was rifling through the vanity of a mage she was sure had died.

            She sighed at him.  “We’re supposed to be raising armies, Alistair.  Waging a war against the darkspawn, and if we have as much trouble everywhere as we did in Lothering, we’ll be in the middle of a civil war first.  We’re two Wardens and a few assorted rags.  How are you thinking we’re going to _pay_ for this big campaign?  Do you think Loghain will lend us the money?”

            He cast his eyes down, glum.  “I suppose you’re right.  I just feel a little more awkward, you doing that here.  The training, I guess.”

            That made a kind of sense, she supposed, if he was the sort who actually felt responsible for those left under his care rather than seeing them as easy prey.  It was uncomfortable, being repeatedly surprised by his decency.  She was going to have to start imagining him with Soris’s ears or something.  “We’ll be out of here soon, and then I’ll be perfectly happy to steer clear of mages in general.”

            “Deal.”  That made him smile.  “Thank you, by the way.  I remember what you did for me, but I, ah, don’t want to talk about it for a while, all right?”

            “Why?  What happened to – right.  Deal.”  She shut her mouth quickly and looked at him, and he was making the same kind of face Paisan, her new mabari, had made when she’d relented to his following her and given him a strip of jerky.  In fact she was tempted to wonder whether she needed to rummage in her pack for a treat for Alistair.  She wasn’t quite ready to scratch him behind his little rounded _shem_ ears.

            By the time they had finally cleared the Tower, Taniva had lost all clarity on how she felt about mages.  The whole event had been disastrous for all concerned, which seemed to point toward popular opinion of how dangerous they were:  on the other hand, there was no denying the kinship she felt with the problem of being locked away somewhere, watched over by outsiders and treated like problems rather than people.  And Wynne, though preachy, preached at her in exactly the same way she did at fellow humans, and there had been elves among the mages....

            The vague feeling of goodwill was somewhat diminished by Wynne’s insistence that she should come with the party when they left the Tower.  Alistair and Leliana agreed at once that if there were going to be mages about, this one was at least a better healer, which would prove useful, and much more polite to both of them than Morrigan, and seemed to share more of their Chantry-taught values.

            Not that Taniva was _against_ Chantry-taught values... exactly... damn.  She was just starting to feel like a dust mop, everything clinging to her as she went by.  And the old woman asked the First Enchanter for leave to follow Taniva without asking _her_ if she wanted to be followed.  Typical.

            Still she nodded, and everyone seemed pleased, including the First Enchanter.  And that was good, because it meant that the mages were not only ready but almost eager to fulfill their treaty out of goodwill, and one of the tasks was done.

            That meant she could go back out across the water and listen to Sten complain.  “Hmph.  Another mage.  What has this to do with the Blight?”

            “We need _armies_ against the Blight, and against the archdemon.  You don’t just... walk up to something like that and hit it over the head, by yourself.”

            “Hmph,” Morrigan interjected.  “You do if you have the power to do so.”

            “Well, I don’t,” Taniva said.  “I wouldn’t put any one person against the archdemon, or any half-dozen.  So it’s armies.  Morrigan, your own mother said so.  You’re just taking Sten’s side because you think he’s a _powerful creature._ ”

            Sten looked sideways at Morrigan, who scowled at Taniva.  “I am not – that is not the only – that is _not_ the reason.”

            “In her defense,” Alistair said, “she was also the one who thought we should launch a direct attack on Loghain.  Maybe she’s taking Sten’s side because she thinks seeing us completely overwhelmed would be funny.”

            She gave Alistair a teasing punch on the shoulder, as she would do with her cousins, and saw him register surprise at the familiarity.  “Good.  Good, Alistair, glad you’re helping.”  Actually, he was blushing, and smiling a little.  “Now let’s move out.  Tell you what, we’ll even go to Redcliffe next.  Talk to that arl you like.”

            “That’s a great idea,” he beamed at her back as she led them onto the road.  “It’s only one full day’s march from here – of course we won’t make it today, but my point is it’s not far, and I’m sure Arl Eamon will help us.”  He fell into step beside her, continuing to chatter happily, as if she had opened the floodgates.  “He actually raised me until I went into training with the Templars.  Well, until he _sent_ me into training with the Templars.  It wasn’t really my idea.  His wife doesn’t like me, you see.  Not that I’m his child!  But there were rumors, you know, because he took me in.  My mother was part of his staff, you see, and whoever my father was, he was gone, so when she died he was kind enough to – ”

            She smirked up at him.  “Are you going to take a breath?”

            “Sorry!  I’m just happy you’re actually being nice to me.  I mean – oh, Maker, that probably came out wrong.”

            She chuckled and shook her head.  “No, I got it.  You’re a lot like my cousin.”

            He raised his eyebrows.  “I thought I was a lot like someone you disliked.”

            “Oh, that.  That was looks.  Maybe that was too shallow, but... I had my reasons.  You _act_ like my cousin.  I’m trying to keep that in front of how you look.”

            “Um.  Well.  That sounds like it’s _supposed_ to come out in my favor, so thank you.  I hope it goes well.”

            The next couple of hours passed fairly pleasantly, with everyone paired off for walking in a way that seemed to minimize arguments:  Taniva and Alistair, Wynne and Leliana, Morrigan and Sten, with Paisan trotting along sometimes ahead and sometimes behind, content with the new quiet.

            It didn’t last.  They were ambushed in the hills.


	7. Fools Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the ambush from the prelude! We've caught up to the story! Zevran's will to live is restored by a nonfatal loss and a pretty girl.

The last few moments of consciousness were something of a blur.  He sprang his trap, drawing his daggers and stepping in front of his borrowed mage in case his enemies were smart enough to go after her first.  Then, the familiar noises of flying arrows and cries of struggle.  He could tell which two must be the Wardens, and it looked as if they were worthy of his hire:  the man had already ascended one of the arms of the pass, and was dashing Zevran’s archers over the edge with his shield; the girl was running directly toward Zevran himself, her own daggers drawn.  She lacked some of his finesse, but she was both brutal and graceful.

And winning.  As he bled out, he realized that had not really been ready to die after all, and then thought of what a stupid moment it was to realize that, and then everything went black.

He awoke to the woman who had beaten him bandaging his stomach.  How odd.  He would be worthless for ransom – ah, but perhaps they needed information.  That must be it.  He watched her, assessing.  She was quite a lovely creature, and an elf at that, his preference.  Her face had the sternness of someone who had seen battle, but there was something – perhaps he was projecting it.  The look that said that nature had meant this to be a fresh, innocent kind of beauty, and that life among men had re-tempered it.  Her hair was dark, and fell into her face constantly, as if disheveled from having just rolled out of someone’s bed. 

That was what came to mind, was it?  He must be feeling better. 

She threatened him with torture when she realized that he was awake.  Not in a tone that gave him any concern that she was sincere, though.  Was she _flirting_ with him, then?  Was his luck still that good?  Her eyes said so.

Well, then.

Ignoring the rather less friendly glare of the man with the shield, Zevran poured out what should be an enticing blend of his knowledge and his charm for her, laying the groundwork for his offer.  He was dead if he went back to the Crows now, and since he’d determined that this was not what he wanted, staying close to those who’d been good enough to beat him sounded like a safe option.  If he could convince _them_ , at least:  but luck was with him, and it quickly became obvious that the pretty girl was the one whose voice mattered most.

She decided in his favor, and quickly introduced herself and her companions.  Taniva was her name, and he committed it to memory immediately.

The male Warden – Alistair, that was his name – was mortified.  “What?” he hissed at her.  “We’re taking him along now?”  A reasonable enough objection, Zevran thought, and yet a bit histrionic in its delivery.  Jealousy?  But she did not respond to Alistair as if she thought he had any right to her.  Something else, then, perhaps.  He would have to observe them for longer.

Finally, they helped him to his feet and resumed their hike up the trail.  “You stay in front of me,” Alistair said.  “I’m watching you.”

Zevran smiled.  “Watch me all you like, then.  I will not be offended if you stare.”

Alistair looked confused for a second, then made an awkward, disgusted noise.

He was quiet for the first few hours, observing the normal rhythm of patter between the other companions.  Alistair and the dark woman – Morrigan, was it? – despised each other, seeming to share no common ground except for this Blight they kept mentioning and for Taniva.  Leliana, the redhead, was another pretty one:  the Warden seemed to collect them, which conjured a number of cheery images in his mind.  Leliana was giddily innocent, to an extent that seemed almost… forced.  Especially from someone who was perfectly good at killing people, as he’d seen.  Perhaps Loghain had hired a spy as well as an assassin.  Then again, it would have been bad form to set up his spy and his assassin to try to kill each other, would it not?  He would keep his eye on her.

Ah, more lies.  His eyes were clearly on Taniva’s swaying hips.  He was tired of being so quiet and careful, and in any case, he needed to build a connection.  He sped up a little bit, so as to be walking beside her rather than slightly behind.  “So, where did Ferelden grow such a beautiful flower as yourself?”

She did not even hesitate.  “In the fetid muck.  I’m a water lily.”  She glanced at him sidelong, and smiled a little.  “The Alienage in Denerim.”

“Ah, I have heard of these places.  Something of a freehold, yes?”

“Something of.  How free they really are could be questioned, but we are not slaves in Ferelden.  We are free to be as poor and dirty as we like.”

He laughed.  “Well, it’s good you’re not bitter.  You do not seem to be especially poor or dirty at the moment, however.  So being a Gray Warden is not without its benefits, I take it.”

“I didn’t exactly choose to be a Warden,” she frowned, but then seemed to soften a little.  “But yes, I suppose in some ways it is a better life than the one I left.  There is some bit of dignity in it, some respect.  The right to show my strength.”

He nodded.  “Yes, I understand.  It is like the Crows in that way, then.  Perhaps it will not be as drastic a change as I had been thinking.”  Had the Wardens bought her, then?  That was not a thing he had ever heard about them, that they bought slaves.  She did not carry herself like a slave – of course, neither did he.  A trained killer did not slouch and mope about like a cowed animal.  “So how is it that one becomes a Gray Warden, then?”

She glanced over her shoulder at Alistair before answering.  “By means of an extremely painful trade secret.”

“Hmm.  You sound more and more like the Crows, my Gray Warden.”

She answered with a pointed look.  “The Crows poison themselves with darkspawn blood?”

“Taniva,” Alistair cried, in that odd singsong voice he seemed to use when displeased, “what if we stopped for lunch soon, and then you and I could have another little chat about what _secrecy_ means?”

She rolled her eyes.  “Oh, yes, of course.  I won’t tell him that traveling with Gray Wardens means coming into conflict with darkspawn.  We’ll just keep that part _secret_ , and he’ll never guess it.”

Zevran tried not to laugh out loud.  Unlike his companion, Alistair seemed too soft to be something as reputedly dangerous as a Gray Warden – at least, not until he was actually fighting.  He’d certainly held his own against Zevran’s ambush, so perhaps it was best not to judge his demeanor too hastily.  For that matter, he was also not an unattractive man, so the wise course might be to keep that route open in case relations with his first choice faltered.  For now, however, he remained focused on Taniva.

“But to answer your question,” he smiled, as if the side conversation had not happened, “no, we do not.  Although we have been known to poison ourselves with other things.  I assume that the purpose is similar?  It increases your resistance?”

“Yes.  But it hurt.  It still hurts.”

So he would have suspected.  He’d actually had to take his chosen ambush site from a small patrol of them, and a few drops of the blood had burned his hand.  He did not like to imagine what _swallowing_ it would have been like.

“So it is with our kind,” he mused.  “Old scars and poisoned blood.  If we live to be old we will have many fine complaints to make to the young.  So surely you must do something pleasant with your time between battles?  As a distraction?”

She looked skeptical.  “Do something pleasant like what?”

“Like attractive elven men who happen to fall under your command?”

It would have worked like a charm in Antiva, particularly on the kind of girl he’d taken her for.  Instead, she _flinched_ , not at all what he’d wanted.  But then she relaxed almost instantly, and even smirked a little.  “Attractive elven men have not fallen under my command as a rule, so no.  I play with my dog, mostly, out here on the road.”

“Ah, of course.  Ferelden and her dogs.”

Because of the flinch, he let the subject drop.  They had only walked quietly for a few seconds when Taniva stopped them both, touching his arm.  “Look,” she whispered, “I want you to understand something.  Oaths aside, I do not want to be offered… _servitude._   Of any sort.  I did not buy and do not own you.  If you travel with us, I will keep you from the Crows, and I will expect you to fight with us rather than against us in other conflicts.  And that is all I will expect of you.  You are your own now.  Only the free make oaths.” 

It made no sense.  He had assumed she’d agreed to spare him based on the pragmatism of keeping an assassin:  that and, perhaps, with luck, on some amount of sexual attraction.  And he had meant simply to offer himself into a less confining service, not… what _was_ this, now?  What should he even call it?

Why had she _flinched_ when he’d suggested taking him to bed?  She seemed to like other flirtations perfectly well.

Now she was standing with her arms crossed.  “Do we understand each other?” she asked.

“Yes.” 

No.


	8. Fate is a Cruel Mistress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva's thoughts on sparing Zevran.

            Leliana is the only one who seems to understand.  I can feel everyone else’s eyes boring holes in the back of my head, wondering why I would ever even dream of letting Zevran not only live, but come with us.  Never mind that I also freed Sten, who admits to killing a whole family with children and has yet to tell us why. 

            I reflect on it myself during our march toward Redcliffe, at the times when no one is trying to engage me in conversation.  I suppose that there are several reasons. 

            What most of them boil down to is that I _chose_ him.  Alistair was thrust on me by obligation to the Wardens and Duncan, themselves not my choices; Morrigan was imposed on me as payment for my rescue; Paisan adopted me; Leliana invited herself along in the name of the Maker, and Wynne in the name of the Circle; even Sten was an act of mercy to which all of my other companions entreated me, despite how sodding frightening and recalcitrant he is.  But Zevran was laid out at my feet, helpless, and I had every right and reason to deal with him as I pleased, and no one pleading his case over my shoulder.

            Choice, in itself, is seductive.  Certainly to someone like me, to whom it is a rare delicacy.  It was only a week after my first encounter with Vaughan that I got the most drunk I have ever been and slept with a stranger whose name I no longer remember, just because I wanted to prove to myself that my body was still mine and I could choose what I did with it.  Of course, the sex was awful, and there has been little more since then, so I can’t say that what I did was wise or healthy.  I can say that it was my own decision, and that makes it precious to me even if it was stupid.

            Much less precious is my memory of Nelaros.  I know it would sound heartless if I said it out loud, but it is true.  I am sorry he died, and that it was for my sake, and yet I do not miss him.  How can I miss a man I knew for only minutes?  How can I mourn a marriage I never wanted?  Thinking back on it, I am not sure I could even have allowed him to touch me, however polite and well-meaning he seemed in the few words we exchanged.

            Perhaps I should have told Father what happened to me.  Perhaps he would have waited longer to marry me off if I had.  It is far too late for thoughts like that now.  I wonder how Shianni will handle such issues, and as always I am angry that I do not have the option of being there for her like she was for me.

            I am angry that I was born into a life where most of my decisions had been made, and that when I was wrenched loose from that, it was by a life just as strict and also attended by impossible duties, nightmares, and chronic pain.  I am angry that Duncan made himself look the great, noble man for sending me a sword, even though he found it “impolitic” to intervene before several of my kin had been killed or molested, and that even the little help he did give was only because he thought I would be of use to him.  I am angry that now I live constantly surrounded by that which I trust least – that I am obligated to divert all sense of trust and family into Alistair, a human man with noble mannerisms, whether or not he has their blood.  That is a constant irritant even as I come to admit to myself that in and of himself, he is blameless, and that he does, in his peculiar way, have my best interests at heart.

            Why then this faith in Zevran, to whom sexual innuendo is as natural as air?  Because he is not human.  Because despite his talk he _does_ nothing that causes me alarm, as odd as that sounds.  Because what I see in him is another elf, and another person whose choices were imposed rather than taken willingly.  That makes it easy for me to believe in his sudden shift of loyalties:  if I feel no loyalty to an innocent I might have married, can I fault him for feeling none to a regicide who merely promised him payment?  I don’t have Alistair’s pretty illusions about these sorts of ideals.

            I look at Zevran and I see myself.  Almost myself, except that if he has told the truth – and there is a hardness to him that makes me think he omits rather than exaggerates – he has suffered more than I have.  And yet he isn’t angry.  Far from it:  any little thing pleases him, and he is full of jokes.  How has he managed this?  How can he be neither beaten down nor angry?  Even that emptiness that I thought I saw when we fought, that made me pull my blows, is gone now.  Can I learn the trick from him?   Could he tell me what it was if I asked?

            These are my good reasons.  There is also the fact that he is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.  I doubt I will ever tell him that:  he seems well aware of his attractiveness and rather taken with it already, and I don’t want him thinking he can use that for some kind of advantage.  I don’t believe he will try to kill me again, but I think that he is in this for himself and not for us.  I understand.  We were not his choice.  We were a practical concession, and now we are an oath made under duress.  We remain so even now that I have told him he is free to go when he chooses – a decision that caused Alistair an hour-long fit.

            I do not want to be a resented obligation to someone I am thinking of as beautiful.  I am not to think of him as beautiful unless there is evidence that I am something other than an oath to him, that I have become a choice.  I am giving him what neither of us was given.  Not mere life, but an opportunity to decide who he is.

            I suppose I am taking it on faith that he can do that without one of us dying.

 


	9. Up the Garden Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran tries to find his place in the party, with only limited success.

            “I believe we should turn here, my Warden,” he said.

            Alistair was scowling at him instantly.  “No, we shouldn’t.  That’s Sulcher’s Pass.  Redcliffe is straight on, and it’s only a few hours away.  If we go west, we end up deeper into the mountains.”

            Zevran sighed at Alistair’s unsubtle mind.  “That is my point, actually.  It will be better not to arrive in Redcliffe just yet, I think.”

            “There, you see?” the man cried, turning to look at Taniva.  “There he goes.  ‘Let’s _not_ go to the place where someone might help you against Loghain.  Let’s go off the main road, where no one will find your body if I _kill you._ ’”

            “The elf has already proven himself a traitor,” Sten agreed.  “Taking advice from him is even more foolish than having him with us.”

            Zevran laced his fingers behind his neck and looked up at the sky.  “I have already made my attempt on your lives and failed.  The Warden has accepted my surrender.  Why would I try again now?  Do I have some personal quarrel with her that I have forgotten about?”

            Sten frowned – well, frowned even more than he had been.  “So you suggest that we trust you because you lack any sense of duty or honor, even to the Crows.  I do not find that encouraging.”

            Taniva raised a pale hand to silence her fellows.  “Why _do_ you want the detour, Zevran?  Convince me.”

            “Your Loghain knew that you were on the way to the Tower, and he expected that you would go to Redcliffe next, so he sent me to intercept you.  If you arrive in Redcliffe tonight, then it is obvious that I have failed.  I am sure he has someone there to watch for you, to see whether I should get paid or not.  If, however, you do not turn up there right away, then it appears that I have succeeded, and perhaps you get a little bit more privacy for a while.”

            He watched her eyes as she thought about his words.  There was a tinge of violet in them, as well as the kind of hard-won intelligence common to thieves and assassins of their caliber.  It was true, he decided: by some good fortune, the leader of the party was also its prettiest member.  A rival, perhaps, even for his own prettiness.

            “You have a point,” she said at last.

            He grinned.  “Yes?  You agree that we should have privacy?”

            She sighed, but she was also suppressing a smile in return.  “If by _we_ you mean all of us, from Loghain, then yes.”

            Alistair protested.  “But there’s nothing to – it’s not as though we were _actually_ going to Orlais.  And if we were going to go up to Orzammar, or east to look for the Dalish, we’d have been better off going straight from the Tower.”

            “What if it really was just a detour?” Taniva asked.  “If we went around the other side of the mountains, and came into Redcliffe later than expected and from the south?  Could we do that?”

            He crossed his arms, a stubborn look on his face.  “I suppose so.  I mean, it’s possible.  It’s a pretty empty route, but then, I guess that’s your point.”  His expression lightened a little.  “There’s not many villages that way, and they’re used to being isolated.  Even a little unfriendly, I’ve heard.  I doubt anyone there is working for Loghain:  they may not even know yet what’s going on.  Still, I don’t like to lose the time.”

            “We gain it back if Loghain loses our trail.”

            A shrug and a nod.  “You’re in charge, Taniva.  If you think it’s the best way to go, then it’s the way I’ll take you.”  He added, with a malicious sideways look at Zevran, “And I’ll watch your back.”

            “As will I,” Zevran said amiably, “though probably for different reasons.  Although perhaps not!  Which part of her back are you planning to watch, Alistair?”

            Among other assassins and disreputable folk, this kind of humor eased tension and allowed people to work together; among Antivan nobles, it usually brought giggles and titillation; but in this group, it seemed to get him nothing but glares.  They were a dour lot.

            Still, they took the turn onto Sulcher’s Pass as he’d suggested, and they ended the day out of sight of the main road down the west side of the lake.  That was gratifying, since it was in his own best interests as much as anyone’s that Loghain not hear of his defection yet.

            His new companions started making camp.  He followed Wynne, the remarkably well-kept old woman who had apparently just signed on as their healer – really, if Sten would just _smile_ a little, the entire party would be very appealing to the eyes.  At any rate, Zevran didn’t want to do heavier work than he could help, and it seemed to him that whatever duty Wynne would have would be more to his liking.  “What are you going to be doing?” he asked her.

            “Tonight, I am making dinner.”

            “Ah!  Can I help?”

            She raised an eyebrow at him.  “No, I don’t think so.”

            “Are you sure?  I am an excellent cook.  I find that many people make camp food unnecessarily plain; I can help with spices.”

            “That’s what I’m – ” She stopped short, apparently less willing than some of them to be quite that rude, but he still understood.  _That’s what I’m afraid of._   “I’ll be fine on my own, Zevran.  But thank you for offering.  Perhaps one of the others will need you more.”

            Unlikely, that:  unless someone showed up for him to kill, none of his obvious skills were going to be allowed play in such an untrusting group.  And that left him very little means to win them over until there _was_ someone to kill.  He supposed he was just lucky they were allowing him to walk around loose.

            Taniva was helping Morrigan with her tent, which was off a distance from the others.  Dealing with the witch sounded unappealing.  With a sigh, Zevran wandered toward the place where Alistair was bringing the firewood and started clearing space for the fire.

            Alistair, coming back to find him there, dropped his sticks loudly and crossed his arms.  “Oh good, so you’re helping _me._ ”

            Zevran looked up, keeping his face bland.  Alistair carried more weight with Taniva than the others did, so it would not do to show ill will toward him, however hard the young man worked to earn it.  “You do not even trust me to build a fire?  But surely I must do something to make myself useful.”

            Alistair let out a loud breath.  “You’re right, I don’t trust you.  Consider how I met you, and tell me I’m wrong.”

            “Very well.  You are wrong.  Allow me to tell you why.”  He stood, dusting his knees with his hands before rising up straight.  “I have been listening to all of you, and it seems to me that most of your companions have agendas different from yours.  Other masters, yes?”  He paused to let Alistair start thinking about it before he began making the list out loud.  “Morrigan is certainly not here out of friendship.  She is serving the wishes of her old witch mother, whatever they are.  Who can even guess?  Sten is qunari, and clearly his loyalties are still to his own kind, or he would be a mercenary himself.  Leliana may well be watching you for the Chantry, or for Orlais for that matter, and Wynne answers to the Circle of Mages.”

            “None of that makes you better, you know.”

            “This is where I disagree.  Of all of these, I am the only one who no longer answers to anyone else.  I was never Loghain’s except by contract through the Crows, and I am no longer a Crow.  The interests I serve now are my own and the Warden’s, and no one else’s.  And since the Gray Wardens are now my protection from the Crows, her interests _are_ my interests.  That makes me the most trustworthy, not the least.”

            Alistair shook his head.  “That only works if I believe you’ve left the Crows.”

            Zevran sighed.  “Spoken like a man who has never failed the Crows.  They do not take it well, I’m afraid.”

            “You could be biding your time.”

            “They are also not that patient.  We are not bards, you know, insinuating ourselves into courts and leading double lives.  How could I?”  He pointed to the blue curved marks on his cheek. 

            “Hmph.”  Alistair looked down at his foot, scuffing it through the cleared space Zevran had been making for the fire.  “We’ll see.  We still need more kindling.  Nothing that will get too _smoky._   I’ll know.”  With that, he turned and went back off looking for firewood himself.

            If anything, at this point, Zevran was unsure he could trust Alistair at his back if the Crows did come after them.  Had he not actually wanted to be free of the Crows anyway, it might be safer to do as Alistair implied, lying in wait for a bit and then trying again.  It was not his preference, but he would have to keep it in mind if he could not win himself any allies here.

            “I’m sorry about that,” a feminine voice said behind him.  He realized he’d been staring off in thought, inattentive to his surroundings – a bad habit to get into. 

            He turned and found Taniva smiling behind him, and he smiled back.  “Hmm?”

            “Alistair,” she explained.  “It looks like the two of you aren’t hitting it off very well.  He’s kind of a _shem._ ”

            Zevran laughed.  “Well, yes, the ears give it away.  I was not sure that was our problem.”

            “He really does mean well.  He just... I don’t think he understands that we didn’t all have his options.”

            Indeed.  Nothing ever appealed to Zevran more than an elven woman whose internal fires had not died out.  Especially if she also had dark hair.  ...He must remember not to allow himself to be drawn too far down that road again, actually.  But it was hard to deny the temptation.

            He inclined his head to her.  “Thank you, my Warden.  It is a comfort to me that you, at least, understand my position.”

            “Are you really going to insist on calling me _your Warden?_ ”

            “I am.  Some of your friends will need reminding for a while that I have shifted my loyalties.”

            She smirked a little.  “Have you, now.”

            “It is as I told you.”  He swept up her hand in his and kissed her fingers softly.  “I am your man, without reservation.”

            That made her giggle, but when his eyes caught hers, the sound died in her throat.  “Yes,” she whispered, “well.”  Her hand drew back, gingerly, but her gaze did not.  He could feel the first humming of the string tensing between them, the certain sign that she was as attracted to him as he was to her.  It was only a matter of time.

            But when he took a step forward, she stepped back, maintaining the distance between them, and the moment broke.  Too soon for that much contact, with her.  She was going to be slow work.

            Her eyes darted groundward.  “I’ll make sure they give you a chance,” she said toward his feet.  “Do what you can with it.”

            As she hurried away to busy herself elsewhere in camp, he allowed himself a small, hopeful smile.  _She_ would protect him from the Crows.  And she would be worth the wait.


	10. Statuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honnleath! The war of the bedrooms! Crow sign language! Shale!

“I’m just saying,” Taniva scowled, “I want you to be decent to him.  Whether or not you trust him yet.”

            “Why?” Alistair insisted.  “You don’t tell Morrigan to be decent to _me_ , or – ”

            “Do you think she’d listen?  Anyway, that’s different.”

            “There it is.”  He stopped walking and looked at her sternly.  “Why is it different, Taniva?  You don’t do this for anyone else.  Why him?”

            “I know what you’re implying.  Are _you_ treating him differently?  Am I seeing how you really feel about elves?”

            He was turning red.  “You’re an elf too, you know.”

            “And female, and the only other Warden you’ve got.  You have to be nice to me.  You treat _Sten_ better than you do him.”

            _“Because he tried to –_ right.”  He took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a moment against the sight of her standing there angry.  “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

            Taniva glanced back over her shoulder.  Because they had stopped, so had everybody else, and now they were all staring at the bickering Wardens with varying degrees of bemusement.

            Morrigan crossed her arms and looked archly at Zevran.  “There, do you see the trouble you cause?  Now Mother and Father are fighting.”

            Zevran grinned at her.  “Alistair is your _babbino_ , is he?  I admit, I had pictured you as more of a dominant type.  This is very interesting.”

            Morrigan rolled her eyes.  “Uch!  Taniva, honestly!”

            “Honestly what?” Taniva snapped, and then added with a quick glance at Alistair, “It’s not as if you don’t say worse to Alistair all the time.  If I really have to start telling everyone how to behave civilly, you’re not going to be happy with the share of lectures you get.”

            After an awkward silence, Morrigan shrugged.  “Very well.  Alistair, I am.  Sorry.”  The word seemed to hurt her on its way out, as if it had to climb up her throat on needle-sharp little talons.  “I will try to point out your shortcomings only when truly necessary.”

            “Thank you,” Taniva said, and then turned her head toward Zevran with all the false politeness she could muster.  “Zevran, please don’t tease Morrigan about Alistair.  She doesn’t seem to like it.”

            He bowed, grinning at her, eyes bright.  “Of course, my Warden.”

            “Thank you,” she said again, and then spun on her heel and resumed the march.

            Alistair quickly fell back into step with her.  “You didn’t have to do that,” he told her quietly.  “I appreciate it.”

            “You had a point.  It’s my job to set the tone for how we treat each other, not yours.  Expecting you to hold it all together for me without even telling you wasn’t fair.”

            “Wow!” he said, beaming.  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you come so close to apologizing for something.”

            She scoffed.  “Don’t push your luck.”

            The conversations about party dynamics were mercifully ended by the appearance of a merchant on the road.  They were fine on supplies, but Taniva let them stop and check his wares anyway just for the change of subject.  That was when he started telling them about the _control rod._   For the _golem._

            Her first instinct was that it was a swindle, especially when he promised to give them the rod for free: but Morrigan’s eyes lit up at the idea of having such a powerful curiosity under their control, and Leliana’s (and perhaps Alistair’s) at the hope of seeing a legend go walking, and perhaps it was not really too much to ask for a few hours of peace and unity.  She took the worn-looking rod into her hands.  It did feel like – well, like something.  She wasn’t really qualified to say like what.

            She handed it over to Wynne, who cradled it gently in her fingers and nodded.  “It is legitimate, although I can’t say yet whether it will control the statue he’s alleging is a golem.  This should be very interesting.”

            Perhaps instead of a swindle, it would prove to be a trap.  No:  if Loghain had expected Zevran to kill them, he would not also have prepared something so much more elaborate and tenuous.  They would have to be cautious from now on, yes, but she could not allow herself to start imagining spies and conspiracies everywhere.

            Anyway, on arriving in Honnleath, they found it already overrun by darkspawn.  Luckily for them, it had been long enough ago that only a small contingent was there, and not an army; still, it was an ugly fight, and after it was over she was exhausted and wishing for an open inn.

            “Well,” Zevran shrugged, “if everyone is gone, then we can sleep wherever we want, I imagine.  There seem to be plenty of buildings left intact.  We will not even need to share beds.”  He put on what pretended to be a shy smile.  “Unless you would like to.”

            “No, Zevran,” she said, but against her better judgment she was smiling as she said it.  However obvious and tactless he might get, there was still too much elf in him to register as making any _demand_ of her.  Even if she could still imagine him cutting her throat, she could not imagine him into a Vaughan.

            It was a special dispensation the others were not giving him.  Morrigan rolled her eyes, and Alistair looked strangely indignant.  Leliana, the closest thing he had to a defender in the party, had wandered off toward the main square.

            “Here!” she called back to the rest of them.  “This has to be it!”

            There was no disagreeing with her assessment:  the huge stony figure looked much too rough and unlovely to be a normal statue, even though it stood in the place of one, surrounded by now-rotting decorative flowers and fruits of the season.  A straw hat lay not too far away, probably blown off of its head.

            Taniva raised the control rod and repeated the word she’d been told would activate it.  Nothing happened.

            “Well, that’s that,” she shrugged.  “Now we look for beds.  It’s getting late.”

            Morrigan frowned, staring at what apparently was just an ugly statue.  “We cannot just give up!  I can _sense_ the power in this object, and in the rod.  They are what they are supposed to be.  Perhaps you are pronouncing the word incorrectly?”

            Taniva pressed the rod into her hand.  “Knock yourself out.  I’d rather get some sleep.”

            Alistair trotted after her as she was walking toward the nearest house.  “Are you sure that was a good idea?  Giving _Morrigan_ the rod?  I mean, what if she makes it work?  Then _she’s_ controlling _that._ ”

            She looked back to where Morrigan was trying variations on the password and muttering in irritation at their failure.  “She’s not having much luck so far, but maybe you’re right.  Morrigan!  Bring me that.  If you’ll come to bed, I promise we’ll look around in the morning for anything that tells us how it’s supposed to work.”

            After one last attempt, Morrigan gave in and followed the rest of the party, sulkily.  Taniva assigned one empty house to the women and another to the men, which Sten declared the first sensible thing that had happened; even Zevran shrugged off the lost opportunity, saying that he’d “still have something to leer at” as he glanced toward a suddenly uncomfortable Alistair.

            Taniva held herself back from laughing.  The Crow obviously used his sexuality as his shield in more ways than one – although of course, that only underlined how likely his overtures toward her were to be insincere, and that killed the urge to laugh completely.  For that matter, she might not really even know he _didn’t_ have an attraction to Alistair.

            Everyone went off to their various quarters.  The chance to sleep under a roof _and_ in separate beds felt like the finest of luxuries, and the night would have been gloriously restful if not for her lingering questions about Zevran and everyone else’s insistence on gabbing about whether or not they could awaken the golem, and how it could have come to be there.

            In the morning, Wynne offered to make breakfast, cheerful about the fact that there was a real kitchen to use.  Morrigan, impatient to follow up on Taniva’s promise to look for information about the golem, fell to studying the rod again.  Leliana went with Taniva to inform the men about the plan for the morning.

            Zevran was asleep on the ground in front of the door.  As Taniva stepped close to him, he rolled onto his back and looked up at her lazily.  “Ah.  Good morning, my Warden.”

            She crossed her arms at him, perplexed.  “Why are you sleeping out here?”

            He stretched his arms over his head and smiled.  “I am proving a point to Alistair.”

            So forthcoming.  She gave up on that route and instead knocked on the door, which Alistair answered shirtless and rubbing at his eyes.  His hair was standing up in all different directions.

            “Wynne’s making breakfast,” she told him.  “Come on.”

            Alistair nodded blearily.  “Sten’s already up.  I’ll go let Zevran out.”

            “Let him _out?_ ”

            “Well, I locked him into one of the rooms so he couldn’t – ” his eyes, now reasonably alert, drifted aside to where Zevran was now sitting up and waving to him cheerfully. 

            “Apparently he could,” Taniva said.  “But it looks like he didn’t, so let’s focus on breakfast.”

            “Rogues, Alistair,” Leliana explained, passing a hand through Alistair’s chaotic hair as he struggled to hide his frustration.  “Here, I can help you with that.”

            As Leliana and the Templar went inside, Taniva returned to standing beside Zevran.  “You could have had a bed.  Was this really worth it?”

            “I had to show him how pointless and cruel a gesture it was.  You would have done the same in my place, I think.”

            She smirked.  “Yes, I probably would have.  Thank you for not killing any of us in our sleep, by the way.”

            “My pleasure.”  He rose to his feet, just inside of the amount of space she normally liked to keep around herself.  “Of course, if I had, it would have defeated the point, would it not?  My goal is to _not_ be locked in by myself at night.”

            “I’m sorry about that,” she sighed.  Then she swiveled one ankle back and forth, unsure of how to move to the subject she wanted to address.  “So... did you end up leering at him?  Before he locked you up?”

            His eyebrows raised slightly.  “Is this jealousy?  Or do I flatter myself, as I am liable to do?”

            She looked down at his feet.  “It’s just a question.”

            “He is a well-built young man.  As a Crow, I have learned to appreciate a wide variety of types, both men and women.  It is a job skill.”  He paused.  “Does that bother you?”

            “No,” she said, and it didn’t, although trying to imagine herself in his place made her skin crawl.  _Job skill._

            The corners of his mouth turned up a little.  “Then you are worried that I prefer him to you?  I do not.  I would not, even if he were as kind to me as you are.  As it is, of course, I think he would rather you had killed me.  So I tease him.  That is all.”

            Taniva nodded.  “That was my first thought.  It sounded a little pointed when you said it.”

            “These are the sorts of habits one develops when keeping the sort of company I usually keep, I’m afraid.  I will try to curb my tongue if you prefer.”

            “No,” she said, more quickly and firmly than she quite intended to.  “Defend yourself however you need to, as long as it doesn’t come to blows.  I don’t want them thinking they can treat you badly.”

            “Very well.  Thank you.”  He bowed his head, and when he came up he was wearing his more flirtatious smile.  “In that case, there are several other things I can do with my tongue that you might like.”

            That ought to have mortified her, but instead it made her laugh.  She was starting not to understand her own reactions.  “Not just now, thank you.  Breakfast.”

            He was grinning.  “Not before breakfast.  I will make a note of it.”

            Alistair re-emerged, his hair properly coiffed, and scowled at how close the two elves were standing.  Leliana hurried him along, and they made it to breakfast without further incident.

            On returning to the statue, Alistair and Taniva stopped short and frowned at each other.  “You feel it too?” she asked.

            He nodded.  “More darkspawn.  If they were here all night, we shouldn’t have missed them before.”

            “Are they in there?” Morrigan asked, pointing at a large house off to the back of the square.  Both Wardens nodded this time, and she smirked at them.  “Then it is little wonder.  ‘Twas clearly a mage’s house, wrought with many spells, some of which may have clouded your perceptions.  Though you, at least, should have noticed that, Alistair.”

            “I don’t know how many more ways I can tell you that I’m _not – ”_

            “Let’s not do this right now,” Taniva interrupted.  “Let’s focus.”

            Zevran nodded and crept toward the door ahead of them.  This would not have been Taniva’s first choice of groupings, but Wynne was cleaning up after breakfast, and Sten decided that he and Leliana, as their archer, were the best choices to check the perimeter of the village, to make sure that no other threats were hidden or incoming.

            Zevran made very slow, quiet work of opening the door a crack and peering in.  He turned to make eye contact with Taniva, and started gesturing with one hand.  _Five_ was the first one, unless he meant _stay back_.  But then _two_ , and then a series of gestures that were more complex and moved, for which she had no guess at all.  They both stood motionless for a moment, and he furrowed his brow, not comprehending her incomprehension.  When he realized the problem, he shook his head in resignation and made a much clearer sign for _come here_ , then drew one of his blades with the same hand to make it clear that they were to come ready to fight.

            There were indeed darkspawn inside, several of them.  Zevran and Taniva had gutted one each by the time Alistair smashed the bows from the hands of the archers, which the three of them took down together while Morrigan set the last of them on fire.

            “I hate to admit it,” Alistair muttered to the elves, “but I think we’re going to work well together.”

            Taniva turned to face Zevran.  “What were you trying to – ”

            It was the wrong time for questions:  Morrigan had already attracted the attention of another cluster of them deeper inside the estate, and the fight was on again.  By the time the place was genuinely clear they had killed almost as many darkspawn as in the whole rest of the village.

            “Perhaps they sensed that something of interest was here,” Morrigan said. 

            Something Taniva still couldn’t sense herself.  Rather than ask whether Morrigan thought that she was less perceptive than darkspawn, she tried again with Zevran.  “What were those gestures about?”

            “Five opponents.”  He held his hand up with all fingers splayed, the sign she had recognized.  “Two archers,” two fingers, which he then drew back across his ear, “in the corner,” which was a point with his thumb.  “I,” the thumb flicked across his chin, “suggest explosives.”  A sudden spreading of his fingers in front of his chest.

            “Ah.”  She put on a wry grin.  “That would have been helpful, if I had understood any of it.”

            “That is usually the idea.  It has been part of my training for so long that it did not occur to me that you would not know what I was saying.”

            “Maybe you should teach me, then.”

            He looked thoughtful.  “Hmm.  It is not the sort of thing one teaches to just anyone, you know.  Then again, it would be quite useful.”  A slight lightening, the hint of a smile.  “Ask me again later.”

            In the meantime, Morrigan had found a magical barrier, behind which a handful of people were cowering.  Once they could see that their rescuers were not more monsters, one man raised his hand and brought the shield down, and all but him fled.  He, however, introduced himself as the heir of the mage who had once owned the house.  He recognized the control rod and affirmed that the statue outside was in fact a golem.  His mother, he explained, had deactivated the golem and sold the rod, because she blamed the thing for her husband’s death.  All the same, he would provide the correct command in exchange for the rescue of his daughter, who was down in the cellar facing some other evil than the recently expelled darkspawn.

            “Then one wonders why he isn’t down there himself,” Zevran muttered as they approached the steps.

            The shades that attacked them on the way down seemed to be the obvious answer.  They were a less familiar enemy to Zevran than to the other three:  they seemed to know this instinctively, and swarmed toward him.  When they were defeated and Morrigan had been chastised for the bolt of fire that had barely missed the assassin’s head, he stood for a moment with his hand to his temple.

            “Take your time,” Taniva said, touching his elbow as if to hold him steady.  “They can be disorienting, or draining.  You’ll get better at blocking that.”

            “Ah.  And what were they, precisely?”

            “A kind of demon.”

            “Demons!” he snickered.  “I had no idea my old life was so boring.”

            He was a fast learner, so by the time they had reached the cellar he was holding his own against the shades they kept encountering.  None were waiting for them at the bottom, however:  just the girl, who seemed quite unaware of any trouble, and sat playing with her cat.

            Unfortunately, the cat had pink glowing eyes.  Taniva cursed under her breath.

            “Oh, good!” the cat said, erasing any doubt that might have remained.  “Amalia was sure someone would come to help us eventually.”

            “Another demon?” Zevran asked quietly.

            “Oh, yes,” Taniva murmured, “I would say so.”

            “Fascinating.”

            The demon cat explained the situation.  The girl was enthralled, and the demon wanted her as a new host:  but in her current form, she was trapped inside a puzzle made by the dead mage, and as a cat she could not solve it.  Amalia had not proven adequate to the task, but perhaps an adult –

            “I’m not letting you out,” Taniva said. 

            “I have been trapped in this tiny cell for _years,_ ” the cat lamented.  “Were I a real cat I would be long dead.  You would call that cruel, would you not?  But unlike a cat I _think,_ and know, and remember what freedom was.  I suffer, and I suffer long.  Does that not call for mercy?  Can you not imagine yourself in my place?”

            Unfortunately, she could.  “I cannot let you have the girl.  Let her go, and I will help you with the puzzle.”

            The cat pondered this, grooming her face with one paw.  “Very well.  When I am free, she will be free.”

            The puzzle was the arrangement of a set of heavy stone tiles in the floor around the cat, between which flames leapt and arched when they were set correctly.  Obviously too heavy a labor for a cat and a little girl, and in the end Taniva was glad to have Alistair there to help her push.

            She was still on the floor panting at the exertion when she realized that the cat was prowling toward the child.  “Let her go,” she called over her shoulder, already preparing for betrayal.

            “She will go,” the demon purred.  “We’ll go together.”  She wrapped herself around Amalia’s legs as if to be petted, but the girl’s bewitchment began to falter.

            “Kitty,” she said in a dull voice.  “You want to – no.  Stop it, Kitty, you’re....”  Her voice grew clearer, and her face afraid.  “You’re scaring me!  No, I don’t want to!”  She broke and ran for the stairs; a bolt from Morrigan’s staff kept the cat from pursuing.  Foiled, the creature turned on them, and flaming demons of rage rose up from the floor around her.

            Rosy light exploded out of the cat’s fur as the demon’s true shape appeared, the floating parody of a curvaceous woman with curling horns.  She ascended before Taniva and pinned her down with a rain of shining bolts.  Out of nowhere, a wolf leapt at the demon’s throat – Morrigan, it must be – and brought it crashing to the floor, where Zevran fell upon it in an almost blinding flurry of cuts.  Taniva turned to see Alistair behind them all, surrounded on all sides by the rage demons.  Jumping to her feet, she cried out to him and attacked the nearest.  Her temper got the better of her focus, and the next thing she knew, all the demons were gone.  Morrigan was leaned against a wall panting in exertion, Zevran was flexing and relaxing his fingers as he evaluated a cut on his arm, and Alistair – was kneeling on the ground, right pauldron peeled away and the flesh charred underneath.

            Taniva fell to his knees in front of him, staring at the wound.  “Andraste’s ass,” she whispered.

            “Yes,” he rasped, clearly trying to smile although he was wincing in pain.  “I imagine that felt similar.”

            “We’ll get you to Wynne.  You... always do that.  Try to draw all the fire to yourself.”

            The pain was winning.  “Trying to keep you safe.”

            Why did that make her want to cry?  “It’s not that helpful if you get yourself _killed_ , idiot.  Come on, let’s fix it before you pass out.  I can’t carry you, you know.”

            In the end it was Zevran who had to support him the most, which clearly made Alistair uncomfortable but couldn’t be helped.  Wynne made quick work of the burn, along with lots of motherly cooing noises that seemed to make Alistair inordinately happy.  Taniva resolved to herself that when they reached Redcliffe, she was going to buy Alistair the heaviest armor she could find.

            Father and daughter were reunited, and the new command learned; and honoring Alistair’s concerns, it was Taniva and not Morrigan who uttered it at the statue.

            A faint shimmer passed over the surface of the stone, and then slowly, its great arms lowered into a casual position, and the head turned one way and then the other despite the apparent lack of much of a neck.  The eyes took on an ivory glow, and a deep, gravelly voice rumbled from somewhere within.

            “Ah, movement.  It has gotten rid of the darkspawn that got rid of the villagers, then?  Good riddance to both.  I cannot imagine a more tedious place to have been frozen for however long it’s been.  Oh, I see it’s got a control rod.  Delightful.”

            Zevran started laughing in clear delight.  “I am so glad you decided not to kill me, my Warden!  I can see that I will never be bored with you.”


	11. Clean Killer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran bathes and cleans his armor. Taniva watches much more attentively than she'd like to admit.

            It was the men’s turn down by the river, but they were taking forever.  The women were going to have to take their turn in the dark at this rate.  The problem was that Morrigan, Leliana, and Taniva were all agreed that none of them wanted to actually approach them while they were still _in_ the water to insist that they hurry.  Finally Taniva decided to go partway down and call to them.

            “We’re almost done,” Alistair’s voice answered.  “On our way up now.”

            Since she was tired of listening to the women debate the existence of the Maker with increasing cattiness, Taniva decided to walk down closer to the river and meet the men halfway.  She assumed they would all be dressed by the time they reached her.

            No, indeed.

            “ _Zevran,_ ” she cried, averting her eyes.  Mostly.  She’d already seen enough to know that the golden tan covered his whole body, that a tattoo not unlike those on his face twined down his right side from his hip to his inner thigh….

            “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said, and she could swear she could _hear_ him smiling.  “I am not.”

            “You don’t even want to know what the conversation’s been like,” Alistair sighed.  “Rather awkward.”

            “Apparently I am wrong to remark on my good fortune at having fallen into such an attractive party of adventurers.  I had no idea anyone could find such a comment disturbing.”

            “Less disturbing the first time, maybe.”

            Sten – who had put _his_ pants back on – grunted in disapproval and resumed walking back to camp.

            Taniva sighed.  “By the Maker, Zevran, put something on.  Leliana’s head will explode if you go up like that.”

            “But my Gray Warden, I have already washed my clothes.”  Out of the corner of her eye she could see him holding them up as evidence.  “Do you want me to wear wet clothes?”

            “Will you at least put my shirt on?” Alistair asked.  “You’re a bit smaller than I am, so it should cover everything, ah, important.  You have got a change of clothes in your pack, at least, haven’t you?”

            “Of course.  Very well, give me the shirt.  But I am dismayed to learn how ashamed Fereldens are of their own bodies.”

            By now Taniva was holding one hand in front of her eyes as if to shield herself from the sight of him.  All the same, she smirked a little.  “Technically, what we’re saying is that we’re ashamed of yours.”

            Again, the audible smile.  “Then why are you peeking?”

            She blushed and closed her fingers together tighter.  And closed her eyes to make sure.  And sadly, continued to imagine what she’d already seen.

            After a moment, Zevran spoke again, a hint of disappointment in his voice.  “Safe now, my Warden.”  Taniva looked up, and indeed, Alistair’s shirt was long enough on the elf that it safely brushed his thighs.  He would be decent enough to walk back to the fire, as long as he had the common sense not to make any drastic movements.  Which was not at all a given, but it would have to do.

            The shirt was also a bit wide for him, and hung in folds that in some places waved freely like women’s skirts, and in others clung to his still slightly damp skin.  His hair was loose, and the usually braided front locks were wisping seductively around his cheekbones, and occasionally into his face.

            Of course he caught her noticing all of this, and grinned.  She stood still as he started to walk past her, then stopped to whisper to her.  “So now you have me at a disadvantage.  We will have to remedy that one day soon.”

            So sure.  So arrogant that she should hate him for it, and yet she didn’t.

            She decided that she would go ahead to the river rather than following the men back and then walking here again with the women.  She was halfway clean already by the time Morrigan and Leliana joined her, and the fact that they were still arguing inspired her to finish quickly.

            When she’d _dressed_ and returned to camp, Alistair was relaxing by the fire.  Zevran, however, was working on something fairly strenuously in front of his tent.  Curious, she ventured closer.  He’d traded Alistair’s shirt and no pants for his own pants and no shirt.  His hair was still loose, which was damnably alluring but clearly a bother to him, as he was down on his knees scrubbing at his armor.

            He noticed that she was watching, and reared up from his work to grin.  “Here to return the favor already?  I was sure I would have to get you drunk first.”

            “I suppose that along with modesty, they don’t have subtlety in Antiva?”

            He hissed, but with that gleam in his eye that always seemed to follow when she said things like that.  “Ooh, the daggers you hide in your words, my Warden.  The truth is that I don’t normally need to be subtle.  Usually my obvious charms are enough.  You are a difficult woman to please.  Happily, I am enjoying the extra challenge.”

            She looked down at his armor, now almost devoid of recently accumulated dirt and blood.  “I would not have expected an assassin to be so… fastidious.”

            “Of course I am.  Good armor is expensive.  As for myself, neither a prospective target nor a potential lover should be able to smell one from ten paces away.  It is something of a truism.”  He gave another quick scrub for emphasis.  “And darkspawn blood _stinks._   Nobody ever tells you that about them.”  But now that he had stooped again, more hair fell down into his face, and he blew at it in frustration.

            “You should have put the braids in before you started on the armor.”

            “And let it stain?”  He rubbed at the leather several more times, causing even more hair to fall forward.

            “But it’s ridiculous.  Here, then, I’ll braid it for you.  Just be still for a minute.”  She knelt beside him, and he stopped what he was doing and closed his eyes, waiting.  Slowly, she ran her fingers through his hair a few times, gathering up the portion for the braid.  It was soft and golden and she was _stupid_ for volunteering to _play_ with it if she really thought she was trying to slow him down rather than speed him up.  But it was soothing to do something so gentle and normal, and the same seemed to be true for him, the way his breathing was slowing.

            When she was almost done with the first side, he spoke.  “I don’t think anyone has done my hair for me since I was a little boy.”

            “I used to do all sorts of things to Shianni’s hair.  Some of them were even pretty.”

            “Sister?”

            “Cousin.  And my mother and I would play with our hair sometimes.”

            “Ah.  That must have been lovely.”

            She moved to his other side and started combing it out with her fingers.  “Who used to do your hair, then?”

            “The whores.  I was an orphan.  Have I not told you that?  So before the Crows bought me I lived in the whorehouse.”

            She stopped for a moment, fingers still tangled in hair near his temple.  “Oh, Zevran.”

            “But you did not think my own mother sold me, surely.”

            “No, I guess not.”  She resumed braiding.  And perhaps it did go some distance toward explaining how very… _sensualized_ he was.  As if to underline the point, he cocked his head slightly so as to brush his cheek against her hand.  She gave a firm tug to his hair in retribution.  “None of that.  Just the braids.”

            “Tsk tsk tsk.  You can be so cold.”  He looked coyly at her out of the corners of his eyes.

            She watched his chest rising and falling with his breath and wished she was even colder.  Once she had finished the second braid and bound it to the first at the nape of his neck, she rose to her feet, and he did likewise.  “Thank you,” he said.  And then he lifted his hand into her hair and teased it gently.  “And when is it my turn to play with your hair, my Warden?”

            She pushed his hand away, flushed.  “Not today, Zevran.”

            “Zev.  Surely this means we are friends, at least.  Does it not?”

            “I….”  She should never have started this.  Her pulse was racing.  “It does.  But still.  Not today.”

            She turned and fled for her life.

**  
**


	12. Short Step to a Long Drop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our first visit to Redcliffe, which ironically stirs up Zevran's jealousy toward Alistair.

            Since his Warden was in front with Alistair, Zevran took to walking next to Shale behind them.  The golem was rather amusing company, and preferable to most of the others in that it held no worse an opinion of him than of anyone else.  It called him _the painted elf_ , seemed completely bewildered by the world of living flesh, and had a startling aversion to birds.  It had seemed to take a liking to Taniva as well as himself, which was for the best, as the control rod proved useless after Shale was activated.  It was following them now by the Warden’s permission rather than by command, out of curiosity and boredom.

            Their detour brought them up into Redcliffe from the south.  The land was craggy, red and barren, with several steep passes and bridges over gullies between them and the city proper.  They had not yet reached it when Alistair, who had seemed on edge all morning, stopped moving forward entirely.  His face was urgent and nervous as he looked down at Taniva.  He spoke quietly, apparently under the illusion that none of his companions were close enough to eavesdrop.

            “Before we do this... there’s something I haven’t told you.”  His eyes dropped to her hands, as if he would have taken them in his had he been bolder.

            When Taniva glanced over her shoulder at the rest of them, Zevran pretended to be looking elsewhere.  Shale was of course impossible to read, and the rest seemed content to relax for a moment before going on.  “Is it important?” she asked.

            “Maybe.  I hope not.”  He cleared his throat.  “The reason Arl Eamon took me in was because of _who_ my father was.  He was, ah... the King.  Of Ferelden.  Cailan’s father.  So I’m, well, you know.  The King’s son.”

            She stared at him in horror, her eyes rounding as if he were turning into a hurlock in front of her.  Alistair watched her helplessly as her shock spun out into rage.  “Fucking noble _shems,_ ” she hissed, “and your fucking _lies._ ”  She spun away toward the bridge and started to stride off, so quickly that she seemed to be barely holding herself back from running.

            “Wait, wait!” Alistair cried, and grabbed her wrist.  That made her wheel back around violently, angry to a degree that almost looked like panic.

            “ _Don’t **touch** me!_ ”  She jerked her arm free of him, and he raised both hands in supplication.  Zevran touched his right-side dagger lightly, wondering if he was going to have to intervene, but she forced herself to stand and breathe until she could speak reasonably again.  “Why did you hide this?”

            “Why do you think?” Alistair moaned.  “Right now you’re deciding things about me based on something I can’t control!  Which is exactly what always happens, except that I don’t think I’ve actually been _screamed_ at for it before.  It’s not something I wanted, Taniva!  It’s never been anything to me but a poison.”

            She glowered at his feet.  “You lied to me.  I don’t like it.”

            “I know.  I’m sorry.  Please don’t let it stop you from trusting me, or Arl Eamon.  We have to hold together.  We have to _do_ this somehow, and I think you’re the only shred of hope I have.  Don’t abandon me for being stupid.”

            _Do it_ , Zevran thought.  _Abandon him for being stupid.  Stupid can get us all killed._   All the same, he wondered why the news was quite this upsetting.  Surely, if there was a political aspect to all this fighting, having an heir to the throne was an advantage.

            She stood silently glaring for another moment before she answered.  “I know what we have to do, Alistair.  Come on.”  Now she walked calmly, and Alistair breathed a loud sigh of relief, and tried to place his hand on Taniva’s shoulder, but she pushed it away.  “Don’t touch me,” she said again, more weary sounding than angry.

            By now it was obvious to everyone that Alistair and Taniva had been fighting, and they gave the Wardens a wider berth as they moved down toward the city.  Zevran did not have to wonder for long if he was the only one who had been listening, either, because Shale turned toward him.  “Perhaps it would like me to crush the other Warden’s head,” it mused.  “It wouldn’t take long.”

            “Probably you should not,” Zevran said. 

            As they descended the last drop into the city, they found Redcliffe in a state of panic, with haphazardly built barricades blocking the major streets and ill-equipped militia patrolling them.  What little order there was, was being orchestrated by a man with an excessive mustache who seemed to have little attention to spare for strangers.  Taniva passed him by in favor of climbing the steps of the local Chantry, and the rest of them followed.

            Zevran was slightly disappointed:  Antiva’s Chantries were full of color and life, even the poor ones.  This one was a bit austere for his tastes.  It did have fairly handsome and well-armored knights coming and going from it, which was in its favor; he was surprised to learn that Alistair was familiar with some of them.  Thus they learned that many more were gone, off looking for some religious artifact – Andraste’s ashes.

            Zevran bit his tongue.  It would be impious not to believe that they existed somewhere, but he was skeptical that randomly scattered warriors would ever find them.

            It was all to do with Arl Eamon being sick, apparently, which was of great concern to Alistair – yes, because that was the same arl who had fostered him, Zevran remembered.  Alistair frowned, casting his eyes randomly around the room:  then they fixed on something in particular, and he said to Taniva just before striding off toward it, “There’s Bann Teagan.”

            When Taniva’s eyes followed his trajectory up to his target, she froze in place, muscles tensed.  Zevran scanned the same area for what was alarming her, but only saw Alistair speaking to a well-dressed man, presumably the Bann, with long auburn hair and a thin, tidy beard.  Perhaps she had a history in Redcliffe that made him a problem.  She moved like a thief, he thought, so perhaps she’d robbed the man.  That was an amusing idea.

            He moved up beside Taniva quietly.  “Is there an issue here, my Warden?”

            Her eyes narrowed, and she lowered her shoulders without quite releasing the tension completely.  “No.  No, there isn’t.  I can do this.”  Without explaining what _this_ was, she went forward to join the conversation, and Zevran followed. 

Bann Teagan was Arl Eamon’s brother, and the only member of the noble family not currently trapped inside the castle by some horde of undead things that also swarmed through the city at night.  He would be _awfully_ glad of their help, he said, but he did not mention payment.

            Taniva agreed anyway, which took Zevran by surprise.  Awfully generous for an angry thief – which cast her sparing Zevran himself in a new light, as well.  It was a pattern:  the generosity was in her nature.  Her hardness did not go as deep as it should.

            She was like him that way.  He stifled the smile that wanted to cross his face, and decided to say nothing.  It was a bad time to give either of their games away.

            Alistair did _not_ hide his relief, and he followed Taniva like a faithful puppy as she went out to find the mayor, as Bann Teagan had suggested:  he turned out to be the man with the mustache.  He was also an idiot, given the way he immediately started telling Taniva how skeptical he was that a knife-eared little girl was going to be of any benefit.  Which went to show what use a generous spirit was, but still, Zevran found himself feeling hostile toward the man.

            Taniva regarded the mayor with a wan smile.  “I won’t force you to take my help, of course.  You can make use of your many other options instead, if you like.”

            That was sufficient to make him see reason.  “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful!”

            “Good,” Zevran found himself saying.  “Ingrates have short lifespans.  So I hear.”

            The rest of the day was spent racing against the sun on errands that had mostly to do with saving Redcliffe from itself.  Their smith was a desolate drunk who refused to work because his daughter was a servant inside the castle; their best civilian fighters were not defending the city because they were holed up in their homes or at the inn sulking over the price of ale; even the knights wanted holy symbols from the Chantry to make themselves feel better before the fight.  The inn was at least interesting in that there was a spy there.  A bad one, too obviously out of place, and not only because he was an elf.  Taniva noticed him as well, and the two of them approached him together.

            He cracked easily enough, and was in fact working for Loghain – but not, interestingly, looking for the Wardens.  No, he was there to watch the castle and Arl Eamon’s household, although he seemed vague as to why.  Even so, Taniva spared him.  Then she turned toward Zevran, and said before he could object, “I know.  He might report back to Loghain once he realizes we’re worth reporting.  But in the meantime, he might also shoot some undead things.”

            Zevran shrugged.  “I am not your fellow Warden.  Far be it from me to question your merciful nature when I have benefited from it myself.”  He watched the failed spy slip out the door of the inn.  “At any rate, I can always find him again and kill him if you change your mind.”

            She smirked.  “Good to know.  I’m sure it would thrill Alistair no end if I started letting you slip off by yourself to kill people.”

            “Pardon my saying so, but so far it has not seemed as if pleasing Alistair was your first concern.”

            She regarded him with a more serious look.  “We’ll find other uses for you.  Didn’t you enjoy killing darkspawn and demons?”

            “Oh yes, very much.  I am not complaining.”

            It was true.  And if it hadn’t been, he would still have been greatly entertained by the battle for Redcliffe, because under Taniva’s direction it was a huge conflagration.  The dead soldiers swarmed down the pass only to be forced to run through the grease fire she had set:  those that made it further also had to survive the bombs she kept throwing at them before Redcliffe’s knights got their first chance to fight.

            _Subtlety_ was not her watchword.

            Deep into the night they seemed to run out of enemies, and the party dragged themselves wearily up the steep hill back to the inn – what a cruel place to have put it – and slept, too tired even to bicker uselessly.  In the morning, the bann came to collect them, making noises about public acclamations.

            “Honestly, I would rather have been paid,” Zevran sighed to Taniva, tugging in dissatisfaction at the armor he had been too tired to clean.

            “If you need money for something, I’ll sell some things and pay you.”

            “Good to know.  Thank you.  Of course, from _you_ I would accept other forms of payment.”

            “We’ve talked about this, Zevran.  We’re not going to use that as a form of currency.”

            Curse it, he kept treating her as if she were Rinna.  Clearly, however, this woman wanted something more subtle.  He needed to make more of a point of avoiding these ingrained habits in favor of the behaviors to which his Warden responded better.

            None of them seemed to be comfortable with Bann Teagan’s little ceremony, and only Leliana chimed in with the Revered Mother in her public prayer, although Zevran did touch his forehead reverently, out of habit.  At least it was mercifully brief – but afterward, Bann Teagan moved toward Taniva as if to pull her aside.  She kept herself out of his reach but listened to him, then gestured for everyone to follow them back up the accursed hills.  Whose idea had it been to build a city on the _low_ ground?

            Teagan’s intent, initially, was to lead them through a secret passage into the castle:  but then the arlessa came out to them, and started wheedling for him to come with her, with a thick Orlesian accent – interesting – and eyes that were clearly not used to concealing falsehood.  Taniva saw it too, and confronted it almost immediately.

            The arl’s son, they learned, was a budding mage, and had been possessed by a demon.  “Demons again?” Zevran sighed, but no one else was in the mood for humor.  Teagan agreed to go with the arlessa as a distraction, an act that seemed to meet with Taniva’s grudging respect, because she wished him luck before turning toward her own people.

            “Stealth, then,” she said.  “I’m going to say that means Sten stays topside.  Zevran, Leliana, you seem better suited for this.  And, hmm, Mor-”

            “Me,” Alistair interrupted.  “This is my family, Taniva.  Well, the closest thing I have, anyway.  Please.”

            Taniva studied him, her demeanor toward him becoming softer as well.  “Isolde wasn’t especially nice to you just now.”

            “That’s not unusual,” he sighed.

            “I’m sorry.  I guess... I’ve just assumed that all rich _shems_ had it easy.”

            “Nope.  Used to sleep in the stable to keep out of her way!”

            She looked down at his feet for a moment.  “I suppose taking a Templar against a demon is more logical, at that.  Let’s go.”

            Alistair seemed inordinately happy to be brought along, “family” aside.  Zevran watched the man’s behavior toward Taniva in between the fights with animated corpses.  Even over the scant number of days Zevran had been observing them, the pattern was more and more obvious:  Alistair was as thrilled by the slightest sign of approval from Taniva as he was upset by the slightest sign of disapproval.  He wanted her himself, but seemed to have no idea what to do about it.

            Puppy love.  He might not even realize that the feeling _was_ sexual, he was so naive.  That would make him less serious competition, but it would still bear watching.

            When they found Isolde and Teagan, they were in the company of the child-demon, who had dealt with the threat in an amusingly childlike way: by turning Teagan into a capering buffoon.  Their human companions were mortified, but Taniva was suppressing the same smirk that Zevran was.  The joke didn’t last long, though, because once Connor realized he could not back Taniva down, he threw his ensorcelled guards at her and fled the room.

            Isolde pled for the boy’s life anyway.

            “He’s an abomination,” Taniva objected.  “We can’t separate the demon from the boy.”  She frowned and looked over her shoulder at Alistair.  “Right?  That’s what they told us in the Tower.”

            Isolde would hear none of it, and the blood mage who had been Connor’s tutor – and Eamon’s poisoner, he’d now confessed – was brought to make suggestions.  They _could_ be separated, he said, but the amount of power needed would require him to kill a willing victim to raise it.  Isolde volunteered.

            Taniva pulled Alistair aside, and they talked quietly for several minutes.  She looked serious, and he distressed, until suddenly she said something that made the young man’s whole body suddenly relax and his face shine with restored hope.  His lips were easy to read.  _Maker, thank you._

            Taniva then returned to Isolde and Teagan, and offered to fetch other mages from the Tower to do the ritual without the sacrifice.

            This thing with Alistair would _definitely_ need watching.

 

 


	13. Stewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions between Zevran and Alistair come to a head as dinner is postponed by fisticuffs.

            There was not time to reach the Tower that day, but they set off regardless so as to be away from Isolde’s impatience.  It was only a few hours before they stopped to make camp.  The pretty Warden started gathering wood for the fire:  the _beautiful_ Warden busied herself unloading gear and checking in with her followers.  Zevran decided to spend the evening quietly in the background, so as to put the others a bit at ease.  And Taniva herself, for that matter:  an occasional cooling period between flirtations made them more appreciated when they came.  Now that he was fairly confident that Taniva saw his interest and was receptive, albeit hesitant, it was worth taking a little time to make sure she did not feel smothered by it.

            Thus he was not surprised – but still quite pleased – by the surreptitious glances she cast back toward him now and again as she dealt with all the others in turn.  What surprised him was that Wynne approached him, and indeed sat down next to him as he worked on putting up his tent.  “I trust you, Zevran,” she announced.

            “Well!  Thank you.  I admit I do not know what I did to deserve such sudden approval, but I will not refuse it.”

            “I admit I was worried about you, given how we met.  But you have been most helpful since then, and you have let pass several clear opportunities to harm the Wardens, or even simply let harm come to them.”

            “Of course!  I will have you know that I am actually very loyal, in my way.  I have never turned against anyone who was not about to kill me.”  Well... that was _almost_ true.  Saying it called to mind the time that he had been wrong, and he looked away uncomfortably.

            Wynne took little notice, or else misread the look.  “And yet you have killed many people.”

            “Yes, I have.  That is my profession, after all.  I have been trained to it for most of my life.”

            She nodded, a sympathetic but vaguely condescending look in her eyes.  It was the sort of look he would sooner have expected from a Chantry sister – the kind of look Leliana did _not_ give him, which was why he suspected something a bit less innocent lurking in her past.  “Ah, yes.  What a terrible thing to be bought and forced to be a murderer.”

            “No, no.  An assassin.  It is not the same thing.”

            That seemed to break the tender mood.  “It is.  You killed people.”

            “Professionally!  I kill people when someone buys the service from the Crows.  Maybe the person who needs to feel terrible is the one who hires me.”  He shrugged.  “Or even the person I am contracted to kill!  Perhaps there is a reason someone wants them dead, hmm?  I suppose it depends on the circumstances.”

            She looked skeptical.  “But never you.”

            “Take this last contract as an example.  It was Loghain who hired me to kill the Wardens.  If he had not, I would never have tried, and if I had not taken the job, he would have hired someone else.  So which of us is the murderer?  He is.”

            “I... hmm.  But don’t you ever feel remorseful?”  Her tone made it very clear that there was a right and a wrong answer to the question.

            Zevran was getting tired of this conversation.  “Yes, I am a miserable creature.  Inside I am crying all the time.  I wish that some kind-hearted, soft-bosomed woman would clutch me to her, that I might weep.”

            She rolled her eyes and sighed.  “Very well, Zevran.  I see that I am bothering you.  I’ll go now.”

            “Yes, and leave me all alone with my half-pitched tent,” he smirked.  “Vicious.”

            The remainder of the night passed uneventfully, Leliana providing pleasant background noise when conversation dwindled or seemed too risky.  Sometimes, for a moment, Taniva would relax and let herself enjoy the singing, and she would _almost_ smile.  As enticing as it was, Zevran was true to his plan for the night and only watched her, and watched Alistair watching her.

            Was she aware of either?

            Given the short distance remaining, in the morning they left Sten, Shale, Morrigan, and Leliana to watch the camp for the day rather than breaking it down, on the assumption that they would get to the Tower and back again by dark.  The walk provided more opportunities for Wynne to question Zevran’s ethics under the guise of making friends, which in turn provoked him into more ridiculous innuendos at her expense, since they seemed to be the only response that slowed her down.  Sometimes she would get vexed enough to walk with Alistair instead, but then she would get the impulse to start mothering him, and the Templar would respond by turning infantile, whimpering over tiny abrasions and offering her his laundry to do.

            The visit to the Tower itself was quite brief:  all of Zevran’s companions, even Wynne, seemed to want it that way.  They went in, got assurance from the mages that they would follow quickly, and then it was back to walking.  This time Zevran got more time to walk with his Warden, and he was able to put her enough at ease to start telling him stories about things the party had done before he joined it.  Occasionally Alistair even joined in, particularly when it gave him the chance to say something disparaging about Morrigan or Loghain, and by the time they reached camp again the air between the four of them was decently relaxed.

            That left only Sten and Morrigan actively hostile, but then again, the two of them seemed the most hostile in general.  Very promising indeed.

            Taniva seemed to think so too.  “You seem to be making some progress,” she said.

            He smiled, and started to wander very slowly away from the others, hoping to entice her to follow.  She did.  “I do at that,” he answered.  “But then, I have always had remarkable luck, so perhaps I take it for granted.”

            She snickered.  “I’m not sure I would have seen it that way.”

            “No?  Oh, I see, you are seeing recent events as a failure for me.  I am hurt to my core.”  He gave her a sly sideways look, and she stopped walking and crossed her arms.  “But I do not.  Quite by accident, I have passed out of the hands of the Crows, into those of a beautiful elven woman with burning daggers and raven hair.  I think that is quite fortunate.”

            “So now I’m beautiful?” she asked, but with a smile that he was determined to view as flirtatious.  Perhaps even the first stirrings of a blush.

            “Not only now,” he retorted.  “You have been beautiful for as long as I have known you.  Which admittedly is not that long yet.”

            She laughed a little, which he always enjoyed.  She spent so much time looking dour and serious, and it was clearly not the natural set of her face.  He could easily imagine all of that melting away beneath the right hands, the right lips, revealing the splendor she was meant to have.  It kept him determined.

            “Why should I believe anything you say?” she purred, with a smile that implied she was not really that unwilling to be convinced.  “You say the same things to Morrigan and Leliana, I know.  Even to Wynne.”

            “Lesser beauty is still beauty.  And what am I to do when you reject me?  Desperate men do desperate things.”  He shrugged and tried taking her hands.  Lack of physical contact really did put him at a disadvantage:  his touch was his best gift.  She did not pull her hands away, so he went on.  “But with them I am teasing, because they do not trust me.  It is different.  You see that it is different, do you not?”

            Her grip actually tightened, and her eyes began to show a glimmer of promise.  “Maybe.  We’ll see.”

            He pulled her a little closer – not too close, not this time.  “Mmm, encouragement.  Careful, my Warden.  Leave me an opening, and I will try to slip into it.”

            She giggled.  “Oh, now, that was awful.  You have to know that was awful.”

            _She_ was learning his sense of humor, at least.  Not that he would not have meant it if she had accepted it as an offer.  “It was.  I am trying to keep you off your guard.”

            Outright laughter now, and it lit up her face.  Unfortunately, it also drew attention to them – stares, and Wynne was actually approaching.

            “Ah, yes,” he said, kissing Taniva’s hands quickly.  “I am supposed to be helping Wynne with the cooking.”

            “I’m impressed.  Good luck with that.”

            He intercepted Wynne before she reached the Warden and returned with her to the fire.  “Ready, Wynne.  Tonight it will be old port and oysters, yes?”

            “That, or dry ration stew.”

            “Ah, of course.  The culinary masterpiece of Ferelden travelers.”

            “We’ll have fresh food again when we reach Redcliffe.  Surely it wasn’t always old port and oysters with the Crows, either.”

            “No, true enough.”

            It _was_ impressive that he had gotten this far with such a suspicious lot.  Granted, had they been assassins or even normal mercenaries, they would all be completely at ease with him by now, and he would probably have already bedded two or three of the most attractive among them.  Apparently people outside such professions did not understand that killing a mark was a business matter, not a personal one.  No pay, no incentive, no danger.

            Now that he thought of it, he wondered how long he would have until the Crows decided he had failed and gone renegade.  The initial ruse would not last for long, after all.  At first, they might think he was biding his time, but the more time passed and the more the Wardens interfered with Loghain’s consolidation of power, the less plausible any excuse would sound.

            In theory, he might not yet be past the point of no return.  He mused over the layers of irony as he wandered aside to his own bags and pulled out a bundle he’d been carrying.  He could almost hear Taliesin laughing as he sprinkled the dried seeds into the pot.

            Foolish, apparently, to let his guard down:  some roaring thing kicked over the pot, tackled him, and rammed him into a tree several paces away.  When Zevran snapped into proper focus, he recognized his assailant as Alistair.

            Naturally.

            Armbar against his throat.  Zevran grabbed Alistair’s wrist and elbow and wrenched them, spinning his attacker away from him.  He increased the distance with a kick and backed away between the trees, ready now to defend himself properly.

            Alistair was furious.  “Bastard!” he roared as he turned back around to try again.

            Zevran had his battle grin.  “Ironic, coming from you.”

            Alistair rushed him again, but now the dog was barking, and there were cries from elsewhere in the camp, and then a flash and a wrenching pain that seemed to hit them both at once.  The rush became more of a flail and collapse, both men thrown to the ground with Zevran underneath.

            Wynne stood over them, lowering her still-glowing staff.  “By the Maker, what is this about?”

            Alistair did not move from over him.  “He tried to poison us!”

            Zevran coughed, crushed by the man’s weight.  “What?  When did I do this?”

            Now the Warden moved, just enough to pin Zevran’s arms to the ground, and snarled the accusation into his face.  “I saw you put something into the food.  What was it?”

            “ _Fennel._ ”

            “You’re a liar.  I know you use poisons.”

            “That doesn’t mean I thought we should have poison for dinner.  What I thought was that we might enjoy eating something with a flavor, for a change.”

            “Get off of him, Alistair.”  It was Taniva’s voice, annoyed and somehow weary.

            He did, but not happily.  Zevran sat up but did not stand.  He sat quietly and rubbed at his lumps, letting his Warden be the one to defend him.  From this position, he could see the rest of the startled witnesses gathered around them.  Points lost with everyone, then.  Quite marvelous.

            “ _Poison_ , Taniva!” Alistair was saying.  “I know you wanted to give him a chance, for some reason, and I respect that.  But the plain fact is that he’s an assassin, and his job is to _kill_ you.”

            “Was.  _Was_ my job.  The past is not the present.  These little things make a difference.”

            Taniva crossed her arms and looked down at Zevran.  “And it was fennel.”  More a statement than a question, but still, she was asking.  Even with her, there was this making sure.

            He sighed.  “In retrospect, perhaps I should have told Wynne what I was doing first.  I didn’t expect that Fereldans would be so touchy about their flavorings.”

            She turned back toward Alistair.  “It was fennel.  So now you and Wynne have to start dinner over again.”

            “So that’s it?” Alistair fumed.  “You’re going to leave it at that?”

            “I thought asking you to apologize might be pushing my luck.”

            Alistair’s shoulders slumped forward, and his ears were red with frustration.  “It’s because he’s an elf, isn’t it?  He’s tried to _kill_ you before, and you’re still going to take his word over mine, just because he’s an elf and I’m not.”

            Her eyes went cold.  “This would be a good time for you to shut up, Alistair.”

            “I won’t!  It’s either that, or you have some kind of death wish, which would be even less good.”  His voice was dropping as he retreated further into his own thoughts.  “Or you were hoping Morrigan would eat first, in which case fine, but it was an awful risk to take with the rest of us, and you should warn us next time.”

            Taniva stepped toward him.  “Fine, then.  It’s because he’s an elf.  Do you know what that means, Alistair?  It means we have a common experience of the world that you have no way of understanding, because your worst days look like our best.  It means we are part of an ancient culture that has stood firm for thousands of years, with bonds that transcend nations.  It means that I can read his _face_ , and I know that he was telling the truth.  It was just fennel.”

            Alistair was stunned into silence, and so was Zevran.  It was a lovely speech, and not without merit.  Of course, half of the whores and most of the Crows had been human, but it seemed like the wrong time to mention that.

            Alistair sighed and pinched his nose.  “All right.  But I’m watching him.  He’s not to handle our food again.”

            He paced away, and oddly, Morrigan chased after him.  “Wait, does that mean that if _I_ threaten to poison you, you’ll stop asking me to cook?  I’m very willing to threaten you with poison.”

            As the others wandered back to their places, Taniva crouched next to Zevran.  “No permanent damage?  Nothing I should call Wynne back over to see?”

            “No, my Warden.”  He put on a grin for her.  “He really doesn’t care for me much, does he?”

            “It would seem not.”

            “So.  These things you said about reading my face, and elven culture.”

            She snickered.  “Oh, well, of course.  We have all sorts of secret communications through our _elven code._   Every human knows that we elves have a _code._ ”

            “Lies, then.”  She must be able to read his face now, at least:  he was beaming.  “I am humbled before a master.  Carry on.”

            He continued to sit there for a few moments before going to see how the second attempt at dinner was proceeding.  Not only did she believe him, she was willing to _lie_ for him.  It made him perversely glad it had really been fennel.

            Which, of course, meant that she had actually read him correctly.  Once he realized that he didn’t know for sure which of them she had really been lying to, he was up the rest of the night trying to puzzle it out.


	14. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alistair learns at the feet of the master, the master visits the feet of his Warden, and everyone else drinks to excess.

            “So,” Alistair muttered suddenly while they were taking down camp, and then fell silent and looked away from Zevran.

            “So!” Zevran replied.  He could still feel the armbar Alistair had thrown into his throat, and was not in the mood to try very hard with the man.

            Alistair sighed.  “Look, I realize I may have, um, overreacted a bit yesterday.  You haven’t done anything to deserve violence.  Lately.”

            “Hmm.  You have been ordered to apologize, I take it.”

            “No I haven’t!” Alistair snapped.  “I _want_ to.”  He looked Zevran in the eyes and lowered his voice.  “For her more than for you, sure, but it was still my idea.  She... wants you here, and as long as you behave yourself, my being antagonistic just makes things harder for her.”

            In itself the admission was more annoying than helpful – signs of Alistair’s attraction to Taniva were pleasing Zevran less and less, actually – but he did have a point.  “That hasn’t stopped you with Morrigan,” he said, but added in a more friendly tone, “Not that I can blame you for that.”

            One side of Alistair’s mouth quirked upward.  “Oh, that’s not just me?  I thought, you know, Templar, apostate, maybe it’s inevitable.”

            “No, she is quite unpersonable.  It’s too bad.  Although perhaps all that fire makes her an interesting partner for lovemaking, at least.  Do you think?”

            Alistair shuddered.  “I don’t intend to find out.”

            With Morrigan established as their common ground, they were able to behave like reasonable party companions to each other over the course of the morning.  They arrived back at Eamon’s castle, and when the mages got there a few hours later, it had already been decided by Taniva that it would be Morrigan who went into the Fade and fetched the possessed boy.

            “Great,” Alistair muttered to him.  “I don’t know what to hope for now.”

            Zevran thought for a moment.  “The demon moves into her, we kill her, and the boy lives?”

            “Ooh!  I like that.”

            It did not happen that way, however.  Morrigan was actually rather quick in defeating the demon and returning the boy to normal.  “There,” she crowed.  “’Tis fortunate there was a blood mage here to suggest the rite and an apostate to perform it, else the boy would be dead.”

            “And Tower mages to hold the way open for you,” the First Enchanter added calmly.  “And I would be more careful in announcing your non-membership in our ranks, even in such friendly company.”

            “Oh!  I – ” her eyes narrowed, and Zevran recognized it as a cover for sudden fear and anger at herself.  She had gotten so used to bickering with Alistair on this subject that she had lost some of her caution in mentioning it to others.  That it was a Tower mage who called her back to mindfulness probably stung.

            Less, of course, than if it had been a Templar.

            Although the Orlesian-born arlessa still lacked a conscious husband, she was ecstatic over the recovery of her son, and felt that the Warden and her party should consider themselves welcome in the castle – for one night, before they set off to Denerim in search of a man who knew the location of some holy relic she hoped would cure Eamon.

            His Warden did not seem much more impressed with either idea than he felt.  “Two nights,” she said.  “My people need to recover, and we need to plan.”  She did not point out that Denerim was where Loghain was, and that Loghain had hired the blood mage to poison Eagan:  Zevran wondered if it was a secret.  There were several reasons one might prefer to keep some such knowledge to oneself, not least of which in this case would be to keep Isolde from taking even more interest in the party’s affairs.

            “If you must,” the arlessa agreed.  “But not longer, I beg you.  If the demon was keeping him safe – ”

            “No longer,” Taniva said.  “And we will stay at the inn.  I don’t want to... trouble you any further.  You deserve some quiet with your son.”

            Isolde bought into that excuse easily, and they were free to leave her and the recently demon-infested castle behind, which was more to the point.

            What was left of Redcliffe adored them, and they were granted a place to sleep free of charge.  It probably helped that there were so few people left, so there was no lack for beds.  Being the hero rather than the rogue might have its advantages after all.

            Still, after luxuriating for a while in the ability to stretch out, clean on a bed rather than grimy on a pallet, Zevran regretted that there had been space enough for the men and the women to have separate quarters.  Not that Alistair wasn’t pretty to look at, of course, and even Sten had an impressive build; but Alistair was still mistrustful of him, and Sten overtly unfriendly in general. 

            Their room was as quiet as an unpopular man’s funeral.  The qunari sat in a corner, mumbling to himself in what was apparently some form of meditation, and Alistair was sprawled across his own bed diagonally, well-muscled buttocks toward Zevran in a way he would have taken as an invitation if they were friendlier.  Boredom finally drove him to rise and head for the door.

            But that inspired Alistair to stir.  “Wait.  Where are you going?”

            “Am I under some kind of house arrest?”  He leaned against the door frame, swiveling his hip slightly and putting on a flirtatious smirk.  “Or are you working up the courage for something more interesting?”

            “Let’s call it that first one.”

            Zevran shrugged and dropped his pose.  “We have just barely secured the town, you know.  We should make sure the women are safe.”

            Alistair propped himself up on his elbows – it was wicked how good he was at being alluring when he had no understanding of the principle – and raised an eyebrow.  “And you thought you’d just go and check.  By yourself.  I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

            “We have already found one spy.  I am the one who knows how to recognize that kind of threat, and I am much better at making a quiet approach than you are.”

            “Hmm.  That’s fine if there are spies.  What if there are _monsters?_   Undead things?”

            “I have been holding my own against those as well, I think.”

            “I think I should go with you.”

            “An excellent idea,” said Sten.  “You should both go.  Take your time.”

            Alistair got up from the bed.  “Do you ever get the feeling he doesn’t like us?”

            “He does not seem to share our appetite for witty repartee, does he?”

            Naturally there was no threat whatsoever lurking in the hallway, and Alistair insisted on knocking and being invited in properly.  No understanding of the principle.

            The women had a _table_.  Morrigan and Wynne were sitting at it, each nursing a goblet of wine.  (They had _wine._ )  Leliana and Taniva were laying across the same bed in opposite directions, Leliana humming something and Taniva waving her feet in the air in time with the tune.

            Faced with all of this, what Alistair thought to say was, “Taniva, your _socks._ ”

            Which compelled Zevran to look at them.  True, they were odd.  They went to her knees, and matched only in that they were both randomly striped in a bewildering assortment of colors.  Unexpectedly… whimsical.

            She turned her head to regard the men at the door with an unusual lack of concern, and Zevran concluded that she’d had some of the wine herself.  “My socks?  All my socks look like that.”

            “I think they’re cute,” Leliana said.

            “I think so too.”  Taniva lifted her arms over her head so that they dangled off the foot of the bed – it was as if everyone was conspiring to arouse him in contexts where there was no way to move forward.

            Still, he would make the best of it.  Certainly this looked like more fun than he’d been having with Sten.  He sat down in the open space on the bed and pulled Taniva’s feet down into his lap, under the pretense that he was looking more closely at the socks.  “Did someone make these?  It is hard to imagine that you bought them.”

            “Shianni used to knit them for me, out of whatever we could get that looked pretty.”  She flexed both feet at him.  “They are the most magnificent things I own.”

            He smiled and traced one hand along her calf, tactfully stopping at the knee.  All about the _socks._   “They are quite magnificent.  And resourceful as well.  It is a shame we never see them under the boots.”

            “Pft!”  Leliana gave a half-hearted push to his shoulder.  “You don’t care a thing about socks.  You’re awful.”

            “It’s true,” Morrigan purred from the corner.  “He just wants the excuse to play with your feet, Taniva.”

            The Warden only giggled.  “I don’t care if he plays with my feet.  He’s pretty.”

            Most excellent.  He continued to run his hands back and forth across her ankles and calves, taking the opportunity to acclimate her to his touch, and to have the extended contact himself.

            “Ignore that,” Morrigan said, looking at Zevran with a sternness that actually seemed false.  How much had they been drinking?  “It’s the wine talking.”

            “Ladies!” he protested, beaming.  “Are all of you aligned against me, then?  This is such a vicious company.”

            “I haven’t said anything yet,” Wynne pointed out, and even she seemed to be in high and tipsy spirits.  “That said, I am absolutely against you.  Let me bring you a cup.”

            “Bless you, Wynne.  You are a wonderful woman.  And quite well-endowed, if I may say so.”

            “You may,” she said, pouring, “but not when I have had fewer than three glasses of wine.”

            As he took his cup, Zevran spared a glance at Alistair, who was still standing in the same place, gaping at how perfectly the elf had insinuated himself among the women.  He smiled up at the naïve young man.  “Come, have a seat, Alistair!  Sit at my feet and I will teach you everything I know.”

            “You’re _evil._ ”

            Zevran laughed.

 


	15. Dangerous Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Could you fellows stop mansplaining Denerim to the woman who grew up there and posturing at each other for a minute? Taniva needs to pick a specialty!

            In theory she wanted Zevran and Alistair to start getting along.  They were the ones she was learning to trust – Alistair perhaps somewhat less than he deserved, and Zevran perhaps more than he did.  So she should be happy with any sign that they were going to learn to cooperate so that the three of them could work together.  Still, having them unite _against_ her order was not pleasing.

            “I’m – I mean.”  Alistair cleared his throat as Zevran stood cross-armed and silent behind him, nodding encouragement.  “We’re not sure going to Denerim is wise.”

            Taniva sighed.  “That’s where Brother Genitivi is.  Do you want to find the Urn or don’t you?”

            Alistair knelt to face her where she sat.  “Do you think it’s even real?”

            “Well, until recently I’d never seen darkspawn before, or demons.”  She tossed a stick into the fire.  “Anyway, there’s only one way we’re going to find out.  And the mages already said they didn’t know how to heal Arl Eamon.”

            “I know.”

            Taniva made her face stern and hard, determined not to show any of her own hesitations about going into Denerim, which would make it easier for them to weaken her resolve.  “We need him, Alistair.  We need to help him.  You _want_ to help him.”

            He snorted at her.  “I know that too.  And it’s still Denerim, and it’s not going to be safer now than it was when Morrigan wanted to go there.  It’s the – what did you call it just now, Zevran?” he asked over his shoulder.

            Zevran’s arms were still crossed.  “ _La bocca del lupo._   The mouth of the wolf.”

            “Yes.  That.  If Loghain catches us that close – ” His eyes narrowed, on him a hurt look.  “You’re all I’ve really got left, Tan.”

            The same was true in reverse, a feeling she seemed to resent more than he did.  Still, he needed reassurance.  “Tsk.  It’ll be all right.  We’ll be in and out of town before he can blink in our direction.”

            “I want to teach you to fight,” Alistair blurted out.  “I mean, better.  You’re good, but you’re not _trained._   It’s obvious.”

            She laughed at him.  “Alistair, I could barely _lift_ your shield, let alone use it.”

            “But – ”

            “She has a point, Alistair,” Zevran said.  “She is not suited to your methods.  _I_ could train her, however.”

            Alistair turned his head, scowling.  “I’m not sure I like that idea either.”

            “Why not?  Is the purpose to latch her to your side, or to train her and make her safe?”

            They were turning on each other again, and now they were getting _patronizing._   “Pardon me,” she frowned, “but I know Denerim better than either of you; I spent most of my life _not_ being seen moving around in it.  If any of us is going to be a liability there, it’s not going to be me!”  She paused a moment to let them absorb the scolding, and to preserve her dignity as she moved into the next thought.  “That said, I would like to learn more about what Zevran does.  He’s a dagger man,” she added when Alistair looked stung.  “I work with daggers.  They’d be techniques I could learn faster, and put to better use.”

            Inwardly, she begged Alistair not to turn his head and see how Zevran was smiling.  He did not:  he slumped his shoulders and sighed instead.  “You’re right,” he said.  “Just... be careful, okay?”

            She nodded.  “Always.  Now, I think we should take the lower road east, and come up into Denerim from the forest.  That’ll make us much harder to spot.  Will you please spread it around that that’s the plan?”

            Alistair rose to his feet, turned and looked for a moment at Zevran – who, thankfully, dropped his sneer in time – and went to fulfill the request.  Taniva stood up as well, and as she stood watching Zevran, his neutral veneer began to crack again.  “That wasn’t a contest,” she said.  “You didn’t _win_ anything.”

            “Did I not?  I won the right to consider you my _student_ , my Warden.  I won the right to spend a great deal of time close to you, hopefully without him peering over my shoulder.”

            “I wouldn’t count on _that._ ”

            “Ah, no, alas.”  Zevran raised an eyebrow, scornful.  “ _All he has left._   That was excessive, I thought.  Rather desperate-sounding for someone who is supposed to be a warrior.”

            “I don’t know.”  She hadn’t thought much about what had happened in the Tower, but it came to mind now.  The memory of Alistair’s longing for family made her want to defend him to Zevran, but what could she say?  He was as much an orphan as Alistair was, and unlikely to pity the man who’d been raised by a rich benefactor rather than assassins and whores.

            Zevran narrowed his eyes thoughtfully as he studied her.  “So this is your plan!  You are using him to make me jealous.  It is quite unnecessary for you to be so devious with me.”

            She snickered.  “No.  That is not my plan.”

            “You are using me to make _him_ jealous?  Is that what protects my life?  How cruel to us both if that is true.”

            She gave a light slap to his shoulder, which only made his face light up.  “My ‘plan’ was for you to actually teach me some dagger work, since you offered.  If you only said it to annoy Alistair, then never mind.”

            “No, no!  I was serious about that.  Shall we discuss poisons as well, do you think?”

            She was not ignorant on that subject:  one had to poison one’s own rats in the Alienage if one did not want to be overrun by them, and beyond that, after the original encounter with Vaughan, she had made a private study of poisonous herbs with the thought that she might one day have vengeance that way.  At the time she hadn’t even dreamed that she would find herself in the position to put a knife in his throat.

            She gave Zevran a knowing grin.  “Do you think you know the poisons of Ferelden better than I do?”

            That made him happy as well; by now he looked nearly joyous.  “Oho, perhaps not!  We shall look at this as comparing notes, then.  If I can improve my own skills while I improve yours, so much the better.  Or were you thinking it would be more of a contest?”

            “No, I wasn’t.  I had this feeling I knew what you would suggest for the wager.”

            “And you are not interested in winning me?  Tsk tsk tsk.  I was so sure you were starting to like me.”  He shook his head and put on something of a pout, which though obviously false did serve to emphasize how pretty his lips were.

            For which reason she found her gaze lingering on them as she tried to answer.  “It’s not that I don’t – I mean – you’re a sodding _fiend_ , you know.  Just... teach me something.  Useful.  About _knives._ ”

            “Of course, my Warden.  Knives.  You have them on you now?”

            Her hands touched both hilts at her sides.  “I always have at least one.”

            She’d drawn his eyes to her hips, and they stayed there for a moment.  “Good, then I will not have to teach you that.  And your poisons?”  When that did not get as quick a response, he shook his head at her.  “Your blades should always be coated with something, so that you can make the most of even a minor cut.”  His eyes came back up to hers, again flirtatious and merry.  “The poke is only happy when it is wet.”

            That was a bit much, even from him, and she crossed her arms.  “You see, already you’ve found a way to make this sexual.”

            “It is what we say!  That is the way we learn it.  It also reminds us to practice constantly, to keep our daggers bloody as it were, because it is dangerous not to be at one’s best.”  He paused, and his look became more serious, as if this time she actually had hurt his feelings.  “This is my craft, and I take it seriously.  If this is going to work, you must trust me to teach you.  Finding you attractive is not going to distract me into training you shoddily.  It is going to motivate me to keep you alive.”

            She could feel the blood rushing into her face.  Somehow she felt simultaneously ashamed for having misjudged him, and annoyed because she knew she _hadn’t_ misjudged him, really, and irritated with the part of her that was more interested in hearing more about being found attractive than about fighting.  All the feelings went to war just under her pale skin, turning it hot and what she was sure was _not_ an attractive shade of red.

            “I didn’t mean it that way,” she mumbled.  “I did already _ask_ you to do this once, remember?  I wouldn’t have if I didn’t think you’d do a good job.”

            “You did, didn’t you?  And here I thought it was my idea!  How cleverly you have caught me!”

            “Really.  You didn’t remember me asking?  You were worried I couldn’t survive my own hometown, like Alistair?”

            “Not quite like Alistair, but I must admit to some concern.  Loghain is there, and so is the only significant Crows’ nest in Ferelden.  That you have family there only provides hostages to use against you.”

            Oh.  Oh, that brought an unpleasant thought to mind.  What if the city guard in Denerim still wanted her dead for Vaughan?  Would her status as a Grey Warden protect her without Duncan to assert it?  Would the idealistic humans who made up half her party fight for her against the law?

            Could she afford to see Shianni?  If she did, would she be able to bring herself to leave again without her?

            But it was too late for any of that.  They needed information from Genitivi, and she’d already told them they were going to Denerim to get it, and she’d dance in the Black City before she compromised her own tenuous authority by taking it back.  Sten had already started mumbling about _mystical nonsense_ as it was.

            She forced herself to smile.  “Crows too?  Then it’s a good thing you’ll be there.”

            With that she had him cornered, just like she was.  He acknowledged it with a smirk and a bow of his head.  “A very good thing.  If you walk with me on the way, we can gather ingredients for poisons.  The ones you make yourself are always the sweetest.”

            Crows apparently had a very peculiar sense of humor.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here Zevran speaks Italian for the first time. When this was first written in 2010, opinions were still divided as to whether Antiva should be considered the Spain or the Italy of Thedas. Bucking the trend - and ultimately, the canon - I opted to make it more like Italy. I will always provide translations for longer passages, and sometimes for short ones.


	16. The Kindest Cuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, you can study knife fighting and flirt at the same time.

            “Today I am going to teach you where to cut.”

            “Then I should get my knives and my armor, shouldn’t I?”

            He shook his head, and his yellow hair glinted in the sun.  And of course, knowing perfectly well that sunlight was kind to him, he smiled.  “Putting on armor and pretending to fight would tempt you to rely on power, and we want focus.”  He raised one hand and beckoned for her to approach him.

            She strode into the clearing – it was still always odd to her, so many trees and no buildings.  The feel and smell of the air were so different, the quiet so profound.  She stood before him, just beyond arm’s reach, and he shook his head.  “No, my Warden, closer.”  When she raised an eyebrow, he explained.  “This is an art practiced in close quarters, often without armor.  This is why precision is so important.  You want the target’s death to be quick, for their sake and for your own.”

            She came closer, and found herself thinking less about an assassin’s idea of mercy, and more about her sudden keen awareness that her coloring was _not_ its most flattering in sunlight, and that in this light and at this distance, he might find her wan and pasty.

            “Shall I show you first on my body or on your own?” he asked.

            She crossed her arms at him.  “This _is_ going to be a lesson, isn’t it?”

            He laughed a little – but it was still that flirtatious laugh.  “Of course it is.  It is the body that one is trying to kill, is it not?  How else am I supposed to show you?”

            “Show me on Alistair,” she quipped, but immediately took it back as she thought it through and Zevran’s eyebrows lifted in intrigue.  “No, no, that was a joke.  Show me both ways, then.  Maybe I’ll learn twice as quickly.”

            “Very well.  A new student often thinks that the quickest kill must be a cut to the heart – and it does work, if it is done correctly.  But – here, give me your hand.”  He took her right hand in both of his, moving her fingers so that she was pointing with two fingers together.  “There,” he said, still holding her hand.  “That is your dagger.  Now, you can reach the heart, but you must have the right angle.”  He raised her hand to his chest and drew her fingertips to poke between two of his ribs, angled in toward the center of his body.  “And you must have the strength to force the blade all the way through.”

            She nodded.  “Tricky, especially against someone taller.”

            “Exactly.  And we are elves, and a lot of people are taller.”  He was being somewhat serious, but he still had her hand, and the rakishness was returning to his smile.  “Do I have permission to show you the spot on yourself?  It will take us close to danger, you know.”

            “I’m sure you’ll be very professional.”  She took the hand that was holding hers, curled it into the same two-fingered point, and drew it into the flesh of her right breast.  He was in fact quite businesslike:  no accidental brushes toward the nipple as they pressed and adjusted, looking for the spot between her ribs.

            A little bit disappointing, in fact, though she was not about to admit such a thing to him.

            “This spot is even harder,” he went on, bringing her hand to his collarbone, “but very effective if you are in the right position to drive it through.  Usually not while they are standing – here.”  He knelt, which put his eye level at a point that must have pleased him immensely, but he kept his eyes on hers.  Damn him.  Such gentlemanly behavior from someone who was so clearly not a gentleman was strangely enticing.

            He pulled her hand down so that she was poking him in the neck, just behind the collarbone.  “I will bleed out very quickly,” he said, “but your dagger must have a sharp point and you must drive it deep.  An ice pick would do.  Something to keep in mind at unpleasant parties.”

            She grinned, though dimly aware that any of her family would find the joke much too macabre, and he seemed pleased by her response.

            “None of this seems more straightforward than the hatchet approach, really,” she commented as he returned to his feet.

            “Here, then, an easy one.  I’m sure you recognize already that the neck is a good target.  But it is particularly effective to cut right here.”  He traced a fingertip delicately under her jaw, and this time, lingered for a moment.  Yes, this was more like what she had expected, and what she was now coming to fear that she wanted.  Pretending that it was all for the lesson, she stroked his neck in turn.  His eyes glinted and he smiled a little as he adjusted her hand into the right spot.  “There,” he whispered.  “Just beneath the jaw.  Not too low.”

            It seemed as if they were standing very close now.  “I understand.”

            “Good.”  A slow breath, synchronized with hers.  “Now, my Warden, I must ask for your permission again.  The next weak spot is extremely useful in certain situations, but I do not want to startle you when I point it out.”

            In fact he seemed to be breathing into her ear, and it was getting harder to think clearly.  “Where is it?”

            “The inside of the thigh.”

            Before she could decide whether this was mortifying or perfect, Morrigan’s voice shattered the spell.  “Warden!  Oh, and Zevran.  How… typical.”

            Zevran moved half a pace away, and it felt as good as a mile.  “What is it, Morrigan?” Taniva asked, as placidly as she could manage.

            “Wynne wants help with dinner, and since Alistair and Sten are busy knocking each other in the head and Leliana, I assume, is off picking daisies somewhere, she has asked for you.”

            “Because you can’t cook,” Zevran objected.

            Morrigan sighed impatiently.  “As you know, Alistair has refused to eat any cooking of mine ever since I threatened to poison him.”

            “Yes,” said Taniva, “he’s so uncharitable that way.  Fine, I’m going.”

            Morrigan stayed behind for long enough to make sure, and the words Taniva overheard Zevran mutter to the witch haunted her for the rest of the night.

            “I do well enough to unite you and Wynne against me, then.  I suppose I should be flattered.”

 

**  
**


	17. Ancient Elven History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva starts to open up to Zevran. Also, Alistair gains control of the stew, and everyone loses.

            Such a strange girl, his Gray Warden.  (Strange, too, how that was now the name he assigned her even in his head, when it had begun as a deliberate affectation.)

            He seemed to be succeeding in ingratiating himself to her, but it never went exactly the way he expected.  She absorbed his flattery with obvious approval, but always stepped back from his hints that he could go further.  He began working harder to gain her trust as well as her attraction.  At first, he’d tried stories that tapped into the glamorous side of the Crows – influence and decadence and dashing adventures.  That only made her want to learn his skills.  Nice enough in its way, as it was resulting in a series of close evenings away from the others.  He even learned a few new poisons from her:  but still, it was not quite what he’d intended.

            In fact, upon reflection, it might be a bad idea to let her become too enamored of the Crow mystique.  That might interfere with her ability to protect her party, which now included him.

            They were headed up the western edge of the Brecilian forest on a sunny afternoon, taking a private walk they’d claimed would be a lesson, when she provided the answer herself.  “Zevran,” she said, looking uncomfortable.

            “Please, my Gray Warden.  Zev.”

            She nodded.  “Zev.  You told me before that the Crows… bought you?”

            Had he?  Yes, he probably had.  He’d said all sorts of things when he was lying on the ground at her feet, wondering whether she was going to kill him.  He studied her face as she watched him, waiting for his answer.  The idea seemed to bother her.  Slavery was an unpleasant bit of history to her, not a living reality.

            That might prove useful.  There was no harm in honesty, for this.

            “Yes,” he said, inclining his head.  “For three sovereigns.  Not a bad price, considering I didn’t know the pommel of a dagger from the pointy end.”

            So that was how it started.  She kept asking questions about him, about his childhood.  It was not how people behaved.  People he’d known, marks and assassins alike, were typically happiest talking about themselves – bragging up their own strengths, unknowingly revealing their own weaknesses.  He was tempted to think that the Warden knew this principle and was feeling him out, except that there was never any trace of guile in her face, only interest.

            It confused him, and it also compelled him to keep talking.  Childhood among whores and adolescence among the Crows.  He kept to the high points:  there was no benefit in delving deeper.  She would either be too sheltered to understand, or too hardened by her own history to care.

            Soon he was on to the ill-fated romance between his parents, his father’s death by disease – she nodded as if this was only too familiar – and his mother’s in childbirth.  “My first victim, as it were,” he added, because he was surprised he had even mentioned it, a point on which he had always been self-conscious.  A point of weakness.

            “Don’t say that.  It’s not at all the same thing.”

            “Isn’t it?  She is dead.”

            “You were only a baby.  It doesn’t mean you were destined to be an assassin.”

            He laughed.  “No, I was destined to be an assassin because the Crows bought me for one.  I tell you my _happy_ stories, you know.  Would you rather I told you what happened to the young elves who were not pretty or talented enough to fetch a good price from someone?  Should I tell you about the induction by torture, or – ”

            He did not expect the response he got, neither oblivious nor callous.  She could _imagine_ it, and the answer she imagined struck her like a mortal blow.  Her eyes rounded in horror, and suddenly he felt as if he _had_ struck her, and he had to make it right somehow.

            “No, no,” he smiled quickly, waving one hand, trying to dismiss the conversation as nonsense.  “None of those things happened to _me._ ”  A lie of mercy.  Strange, the way she inspired him to behave.

            She glared at him for a moment, almost accepting that it was all a joke and on the verge of taking him to task for it.  No – she shook her head, the look of sorrow creeping back over her face as she curled against his chest and put her arms around his waist.

            _Sympathy_ , his instincts told him coldly.  _That will do.  Kiss her now, and she’s yours._

            And yet he didn’t.  Somehow she’d seen further into him than he’d planned, and recognized the truth of what had made him.  Something in her knew what that was, and yet wasn’t hardened against it the way he’d learned to be.  For some reason, that made him incapable of pressing his advantage.  Instead, he put his arms around her and simply held her quietly.

            He would really have to find out what had provoked this response.  Some trauma beyond mere poverty, and too fresh to have scarred over.  A trauma that could still shake a woman who did not balk at facing demons and darkspawn.  Very interesting.  He would have to draw her out, and then perhaps he could help her to – could _use_ her trust to his advantage.  Yes.

            “Better?” he asked, and she nodded.

            “I’m so sorry, Zevran.”

            “Compassion as well as beauty.  But surely your own life was not so idyllic.  After all,” he said, watching her carefully, “people like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment.”

            “Oh, now,” she protested.  “Other than the dead mother and the crushing poverty and the oppression….”  But her eyes were not as nonchalant as her words.  He could see the trauma emerging more clearly, as well as a sense of obligation because he had been so forthcoming.

            She gestured for him to sit with her, and they lowered themselves into the grass, both facing the same direction, so that she could stare blankly out rather than looking at his face as she talked.

“I don’t know why it’s gotten so hard,” she said with a sigh.  “It was practically the first thing I said to King Cailan.”

He almost laughed.  “Really!  You always surprise me, my Warden.  Did he find it a suitable introduction to your charms?”

“He wasn’t happy.  He said he wanted to do something about it, but then all this happened, and.”  She sighed again.  “Did I ever tell you how I became a Gray Warden?”

            “All you said was that it was not by choice.  I thought maybe you were sold into duty, like I was, but I thought it was better not to ask at the time.  You did not seem prepared to talk about it.”

            “Have you ever been to the Alienage in Denerim?”  He shook his head, and she went on.  “I’ve heard it’s not the worst one, but it’s bad enough.  The local Arl was not very sympathetic with us, and that’s to say nothing of his son Vaughan.”  She suppressed a shudder.

            He noticed her hesitating, and after a moment he prompted her.  “He was worse, I take it.”

            “Now and again he and his favorite handful of guards would come into the Alienage and… _borrow_ attractive young women for a day, or for several.  Everyone knew.  But he was the Arl’s son, you see, and nothing ever got done about it.  A few months ago, he showed up at a celebration and hauled away several of us, including myself.”

            Ah, yes, he could see where this was going.  She was giving him a measured look now, watching for his response – as he had done with her.  Unsure.  Dear girl:  he would have judged her more harshly for a life of unblemished peace than for this.  This he understood.  He nodded and waited silently for her to continue. 

It made her bolder.  “It was the second time I had been taken.”

            That explained a number of things.  He lowered his eyes and sighed, and nodded again.

            She snorted.  “I doubt he remembered me.  It had been a couple of years, and who knows how many knife-ears had been in and out of his sodding dungeons since then.”  Another pause for breath.  “One girl panicked, and they killed her as an example to the rest of us.  Then they divided us up to wait our turns.”

            The corners of her mouth turned up in cold satisfaction.  “So I killed him, and everyone who stood in our way.”

            He was really becoming rather fond of her.  “Very good.  And you were made a Warden in return for the public service?”

            She laughed.  “Not quite.  Duncan conscripted me out from under arrest.  If he hadn’t happened to be in Denerim, I would have been executed.”

            “The same fates must watch over both of us,” he grinned.  “It sounds like the end of one of my stories, does it not?  And an Arl’s son.  That would be worthy of a Crow.”

            She hugged her knees.  “You’re too kind.  We should never have been there.”

            “I agree,” he said, putting an arm gently around her shoulders.

            “No.  I should have kept them from taking us.  Shi-”  She stopped short.  There was more here, but she would take him no further into the story today.  The openness in her eyes was shutting down; it was time for reassurance, not for pressing.

            Zevran shrugged.  “ _Should have._   What does that mean, really?  What use is it?  You lived, and he died.  And you got to kill him yourself.  This is a happy ending, yes?”

            She grimaced.  “I suppose so, if that’s the way you look at it.  Anyway, yes, I agree.  People like us do not come from happy lives.”

            “But look how happy we have become, my Gray Warden.  Do you know that I can tell without looking when you have struck a very good blow, because you _giggle?_ ”  He actually recalled the sound as he said it, and it made him feel oddly cheerful.

            She furrowed her brows at him.  “Now.  I’m not sure that’s the kind of thing I should be happy about.”

            “There is that word _should_ again.  This is meaningless.  We do what we must, and we take the enjoyment we can, and we live.  And beyond this, there is no _should._   But… thank you.”  He inclined his head.  “For trusting me with your story.  I promise I will treat your secrets as you have treated mine.”

            “Ah.  Then I’ll have to remember to take down those posters I put up on the way out of Redcliffe.”

            He laughed, nudged her shoulder with his, and rose to his feet.  “I think I smell Alistair’s horrible whatever-it-is stew cooking.  Shall we, then?”

            Alistair still _claimed_ it was lamb, and the rest of them played along gamely, as they always did when it was Alistair’s turn to cook.  Taniva sat next to Zevran, and leaned her legs toward his, letting them touch.  Sex would still take time, but trust was coming.  He found that he liked having that:  he smiled a little to himself and did not press, for the moment, for anything else.

            Strange, the way she inspired him to behave.

 


	18. The Comforts of Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is also possible to flirt over a fight to the death with some jerk knight and his cronies. In case you wondered. Meanwhile, meeting Goldanna goes as one would expect.

            After all the worry over their destination, the lack of interest with which Denerim greeted them was anticlimactic.  With all the refugees from darkspawn attacks, soldiers and mercenaries passing through, and political unrest, hardly anyone gave the Wardens any notice at all.  On the bright side, it was a vindication for Taniva as the one who had kept insisting they could handle it.

            Still, being back made her uneasy, and when the clipped voice of a nobleman in shining armor called out to accuse her, all her instincts screamed that it must be because of Vaughan.  She scanned his face, wild-eyed, and found herself holding her breath until she was sure she didn’t recognize him.  When the name he invoked was Cailan rather than Vaughan, she dismissed him entirely, and turned and walked away.

            She could ignore the indignant noises the man made behind her, but not Zevran’s voice.  “Wait, my Warden.”  She turned and found him standing close – unlike Alistair, he did not resort to holding her arm to stop her.  “It would not be prudent to leave him alive to report to Loghain.  If he wants a duel, I suggest you give him one.”

            Yes, yes, true enough, and she was irritated with herself for having to be told.  Her mind was too much on her own history with Denerim and not enough on the reasons she had come back.  “Name the place,” she called over Zevran’s shoulder.

            The place was to be an alley she knew well; the _time_ he wanted was hours away.  Zevran leaned closer and whispered to her.  “Agree.  I will shadow him and make sure he does not spread word of us.  Meanwhile, you can see to this other matter without interference.”

            She nodded agreement to both Zev and Ser Landry; the man walked away, and after several seconds Zev followed, vanishing into the crowd surprisingly quickly.

            Alistair distracted her from the little pang of regret she felt when she could no longer pick out where Zev was, by predictable means.  “Do you really trust him to – ”

            “Yes,” she interrupted, “I trust him to.  That’s going to keep being the answer, so stop asking.  Now let’s look for Genitivi.”

            Alistair nodded.  “Of course.  Actually, we’re close to – while we’re in Denerim – oh Maker, I shouldn’t even – ” he covered his face with his hand, flustered and disgusted with himself.

            “What?  Out with it.  It can’t possibly beat the last one.”

            He laughed a little.  “No, not from your perspective, I suppose.  My, ah, sister lives in Denerim.  Mother’s side, not royalty.  I’ve never met her.  I only found out about her a little bit before all this happened.”

            “And you want to meet her.  Of course.”  She thought back to the tower.  “Goldanna?”

            Now he was blushing.  “Yes.  And... I’d like you to go with me, if you would.  I’m a bit nervous.”

            She still felt strange about the trust building between her and Alistair, more so than about the trust between her and the assassin.  She realized that other than raw attraction to Zev, the difference was largely her own resentments over things Alistair himself had had no part in – and realizing that felt strange too.  “All right, Alistair.  We’ll go if there’s time.”

            There turned out to be plenty of time:  it did not take much pressing to determine that Genitivi’s apprentice was lying about his whereabouts, and that led to blows, and _that_ led to finding the dead body of Genitivi’s _real_ apprentice.

            Taniva sifted through Genitivi’s belongings, under her and Alistair’s mutual assumption that she would be better at spotting what was important.  “Have you ever heard of this place?” she asked, noticing a reference in the missing Brother’s papers.  “Haven?”

            “I think it’s up in the mountains west of Redcliffe.  Off that pass we took when we found Shale, actually.  Shame we didn’t know then.”

            “It is.  Now we’ll be backtracking.  At least we have an idea where to backtrack to.”

            They left Genitivi’s house to find Goldanna’s, and Alistair grew more and more fidgety.  “Stop that,” Taniva said by way of comfort.  Then, realizing she hadn’t really been very comforting, she added, “She should be proud to have you as a brother.”

            That made him smile, and he gathered his courage enough to knock on the door.

            Alistair must have taken after his father:  Taniva couldn’t see much of a resemblance between him and Goldanna.  Of course, it probably didn’t help that she looked haggard from a hard, poor life.  She began the conversation by telling them her price as a laundress.  When Alistair managed to tell her he was her brother, she was distraught.  “I knew it!  They told me you was dead, but I _knew!_ ”

            At first it sounded like a good start to a tearful reunion, but it turned quickly.  She hated him – hated the idea of him, because he was the king’s son, and because their mother’s death had left her in poverty while he lived, in her mind, in regal splendor.

            A month ago, Taniva would have been completely in sympathy with Goldanna.  But now she knew that Alistair was kind-hearted and that his “regal splendor” had consisted of hiding in a stable from a distant foster-father and his unfriendly wife, and even knowing all too well why Goldanna felt as she did, she was still angry at the woman.  The whole thing was horrible, and she didn’t know what to do.  She told Alistair he could give her a little money, but that didn’t help.  Goldanna thought it was an insulting amount given what she thought he had, and because Taniva had gotten involved the woman started looking at her with contempt as well, and was on the verge of saying things they would all probably regret when Taniva ushered Alistair out the door.

            He seemed as if the air had been knocked out of him.  He was silent as they walked a comfortable distance away from the little house, and Taniva stopped and waited for him to say something about the experience.

            “...Well,” he said at last.  “That... really wasn’t what I expected.  I thought – I guess I thought she’d just – because we’re family.  Aren’t we?  Isn’t that what – ”  He was starting to curl in on himself, crushed.

            “ _Real_ family does, yes,” Taniva said.  She crossed her arms, steeling herself to say the words he needed.  “Just because she might have had the same mother as you doesn’t make her your _real_ family.  Think about it!  It’s Duncan who was your father, not some king you never met.  _I’m_ your sister.”

            He didn’t need to know she couldn’t embrace Duncan as a father with him.  He just needed to know that someone accepted him as he was, and she did.  Now.

            He looked shocked.  “Do you mean that?”

            She nodded.  “I’m your sister, and I’m proud of you.”  For emphasis, she thumped him on the shoulder with her fist.  “Now stop being a knobhead and go tell the rest of the party where we’re bound next.  I’ll catch up after I fetch Zevran.”

            He sighed at her feet.  “I don’t like your going alone.”

            “I know you don’t.  Try to trust me.”

            “I do trust you.”  He lifted his gaze to meet hers, suddenly bashful.  “Thank you, Tan.  I mean it.”

            Now:  if he were really her brother, she would send him off with a quick hug.  Even though he was a big, overmuscled _shem_ who could overpower her easily.  Even so, because she would trust him that far.  Her heart only skipped once as she forced herself to throw her arms around him, give him a little squeeze, and then shove him away.  “Get moving,” she said.  He staggered away looking dazed.

            Freed from her errands and from her external conscience, Taniva was able to start moving toward the alley behind Wonders of Thedas and her appointment there, not like an affronted _shem_ knight but like a sneak thief.  She had no intention of giving Ser Landry a “fair” duel.

            That was for the best, because it looked like he had no intention of giving her one, either.  She saw half a dozen guards waiting with him.  Typical.  She did _not_ see any evidence that Zev was there.  He shouldn’t have let this pass.  He should have split them up somehow, or at least warned her – but then again, maybe he was looking for her to warn her now – but that would paint him as a rather bad tracker, which she wouldn’t have expected.

            He wouldn’t have just run off.  He _wouldn’t_ have.

            Well, whatever was the reason he wasn’t there, she couldn’t let any of them leave the alley alive.  Unfortunately, since she’d sent Alistair away, she had no idea how she was going to make sure none of them did.  Even if she could kill seven men by herself, she couldn’t assure that none of them would break ranks and run when they determined that about her.  That being the case, she decided she would have to go for Ser Landry himself first.  If a guard survived, there was at least a chance he wouldn’t be motivated or informed enough to report the whole thing to Loghain.

            The alley dead-ended, which could have served as an advantage if she’d had help, or if it hadn’t been so wide.  As it was, there’d be plenty of room for them to move around her once she was spotted.  She sidled along the walls faced away from the sun, glad that the guards were on the same side, and so facing away from her.  They were watching the light from the shadows without really using the shadows properly – men presuming to stealth who had not really learned the skill.  That would give her an initial advantage.

            What would be less helpful was that there was no angle from which to approach Ser Landry that didn’t have a guard standing in the way or force her out of hiding too soon.

            There was a sudden rush of movement in her peripheral vision, and it had only just registered in her consciousness that there was one more person than she’d counted when one of the guards fell, blood gushing out of his throat.  A quick flash of golden hair as the figure moved behind a second guard and felled him the same way.

            As the rest of the humans became aware of what was happening and thawed into movement, their little line fractured – which opened a path between her and Ser Landry.  She rushed his side, throwing herself down onto her knees as he swung his sword toward where her neck had been, then jabbing her left-hand blade into his kidney.  It was a dangerous move:  he was already bringing down his pommel to crack her skull when she shoved him away as hard as she could.  She was only partly successful, so he remained on his feet as she staggered onto hers, the side of her head bleeding from the glancing blow.

            She’d given him a lethal cut, but not a fast one.  He was lurching toward her again, now murmuring curses at her dishonor and her knife-eared whoredom.  A guard stepped up to his defense from Taniva’s left, and she spun toward him, swinging both daggers toward neck and stomach.  One deflected his oncoming cut, and the other slashed him.  She let the spin carry her all the way around and back to Landry, turning her wrist to pierce between his ribs.

            He fell to his knees, blood filling his mouth, but he still made one more clumsy swing toward her legs before reeling forward to lie still and dead in the mud.

            Zevran had one foot on the chest of the last fallen guard, so as to help him wrench one of his knives free of where it had struck bone.  When it came loose, he flashed a playful smile at Taniva.  “Not bad, my Warden!  Once I have taught you a little more finesse, you will be able to do that more quickly.  Then our tallies will be even, hmm?”

            She was breathing hard, and starting to feel the gash in her head.  “Hmph.  Landry should count for two.  Stubborn bastard.”

            “As you say, then.”

            “Did it occur to you to _warn_ me when you realized how many men he was bringing?  Is there a sign for _cheating_ shem _brought six of his friends?_ ”  She waved her hands vaguely in parody of his system, which she hadn’t mastered yet.  “Or, you know, to get rid of some beforehand?”

            He moved gracefully around the bodies to stand before her, still smiling.  “It does not seem to have been a very great problem.  I thought that perhaps doing something like this together would bring us closer.”

            She was still panting a little, and starting to worry that it was no longer because of exertion.  “You have strange ideas about what motivates me, Zev.”

            Another step closer, and a gentle touch to her arms.  “Do I?  But that does not make them untrue.”

            No, sadly enough, it didn’t.  She let her forehead come down to rest against his shoulder, and leaned into him wearily for a moment as he slipped his arms the rest of the way around her.  But that was as far as she allowed things to go:  there was still her injury to be tended, and several bodies to dispose of.

 


	19. Litmus Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally a flashfic in Alistair's POV. The mabari casts his vote for favorite companion.

            Ever since Paisan came gamboling over to us with a pack of darkspawn chasing him, he’s been Taniva’s personal guard.  At first he didn’t quite trust anyone else, not even me.  Sure, maybe I teased him a little bit, but it was hard to get used to how smart he is.  Smart even for a mabari.  That’s why I have faith in his judgment now.  I’ve even stopped worrying about Morrigan, even though we still argue all the time.  I don’t think about her turning on us because Paisan brought her a dead rabbit a day past Lothering.

            It was a friendly gesture _and_ it was funny. 

            Tonight we’ve just entered the Brecilian forest.  Night is only just falling, so those of us who are reasonably friendly are sitting around the fire.  Morrigan and Sten like to keep more of a distance, which is for the best for everyone, really.  Leliana is chatting with Wynne about, oh, something religious or other.  I’m not really paying much attention to them, partly because I’ve never been as interested in that as Templars are supposed to be, and partly because I’m watching Zevran flirt with Taniva.  He never stops.  I’ve given up trying to tell her not to trust him, because she doesn’t care.

            And really, at this point, _my_ not trusting him probably has nothing to do with his being a Crow anyway.  He’s had a dozen chances to kill us or let us die that he hasn’t taken.  I just don’t like how hard he’s working to be _close_ to her.  All the ridiculous things he says and does, and for him they’re _working._   I don’t understand it at all.

            Paisan’s spots and paint look even more mottled in firelight, so he’s almost camoflaged as he approaches us; even Zevran is surprised, and he’s nearly as quick to respond to shifts in his surroundings as a dog.  He’s just as shocked as I am when Paisan looks him over thoughtfully and then drops his head into the elf’s lap as if he’s going to go to sleep there.

            “Oof!” Zevran laughs.  “Careful!  You’re as heavy as an ox!”

            Taniva smiles; Zevran smiles too.  Of course he does.  Complaining aside, he knows exactly what this means.

            It means I am never going to be rid of him.

**  
**


	20. What Is Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party meets the Dalish. The Dalish are underwhelmed.

            At the time, it had been easier than Taniva had expected to leave Denerim:  even though the paranoia about re-arrest for Vaughan was beginning to subside, it was easily replaced by paranoia about being discovered by Loghain.  In fact that was even worse in a way, because that danger wasn’t just about her:  exposure to Loghain was a threat to the entire party, and the things they were trying to _achieve_.  It was a lot of responsibility.

            It had succeeded in crowding out her responsibility to Shianni, and that was what bothered her most now that she was back in the forest.  Naturally the Blight was the most important, Alistair would say, it being a threat to everyone equally:  but even so, loyalty to family was supposed to be the one remaining virtue her people still had.  Who _was_ she if she put a party made mostly of _shems_ before her own cousin?  If she could come and go from Denerim without ever going once to see –

            Well, but it was too late for that now, she supposed.  And Shianni was strong, much stronger than her brother and uncle – and, Taniva added bitterly, she had seen a sort of preview of the process of recovery when she’d had to steer Taniva through it.  At least she would have some idea what to expect.

            She was distracted from her gloomy thoughts when Zev broke away a little bit from the others and started scanning the ground with great interest.

            “Aravels have been this way,” he said, hurrying back toward her and Alistair.  “Recently.”

            Alistair nodded thoughtfully.  “A Dalish clan!  That’s a bit of luck, actually.  We should try to talk to them while we have this chance.  It’s not always so easy to find them.”  Then he furrowed his brows and looked back at Zevran.  “So why do you recognize the tracks?”

            Zev answered with a self-deprecating, lopsided smirk.  “The last time I wanted to stop being a Crow, I tried to run away and join the Dalish.  As you can see, it did not work out well for me.”  He paused.  “The _finding_ part was simple.  Simple enough, in fact, that I was not the only Crow who managed it.  In any case, I also struggled with certain things about the lifestyle.”

            “The Crows came after you?” Alistair asked.  “Are they really that stubborn about bringing back defectors?”

            “Oh, yes.  Our training is time-consuming and expensive.  We are valuable commodities.  And that is without considering the trade secrets they want to keep to themselves.  _A Crow dies wearing black feathers_ , as the saying goes.  One way or the other.”

            “And you’ve still tried to leave them twice,” Alistair mused, a look more sympathetic than usual coming across his face.  “I’d never really thought about it that way.  Did you ever even _want_ to be a Crow?”

            Zev laughed.  “Who could even remember now?  It is not as though anyone ever asked me.  The pay and the status were better than many elves receive, and killing people is more interesting than cleaning up after them, I think.  So it was not without its rewards.”

            As much as she liked to hear Zev talk about himself and to actually see him and Alistair getting along, Taniva interrupted.  “The aravels.  Which way were they headed?”

            Called back to duty, Zev led them the way he thought the Dalish were going:  sure enough, by the time they made camp for the night, they had come close enough to attract the scouts with their campfire.  That nearly came to blows, since they appeared with bows already drawn and Sten was, as always, of a mind to smash the first hint of opposition.  Taniva leapt up, dragging Zevran behind her as she put herself between her people and the Dalish.

            That worked – the lead scout lowered her aim a little and spoke.  “The _shemlen_ send their flat-eared servants to negotiate with us?”

            Taniva sneered.  “I’m nobody’s ‘flat-eared servant.’  This is _my_ party.”

            The Dalish woman raised an eyebrow.  “Forgive me if I am skeptical.”

            “Zev, would you kindly fetch Alistair over here?”

            He chuckled.  “Of course, my Warden.”

            That took hardly any time, since indeed everyone was already coming to see what had happened.  “Alistair,” she called, “who’s in charge here?”

            “You are.”

            The scout looked surprised, then looked suspiciously at Zevran.  “You could have warned him to say this.”

            “That would have insured that he did not say it,” Zevran grinned.  “And he would have made a dreadful liar regardless.  _Hamin._ ”

            It did not sound like Antivan, and judging by the look on the scout’s face, it was not.  Her eyes were wide.  “ _Ma... in Vir Tanadahl?_ ”

            “I was, for a time.”  He gestured toward Taniva and Alistair.  “My lovely associate and her _shemlen_ there are Grey Wardens, if that means something to you.”

            The scout looked thoughtful for a long moment.  “It does,” she said at last, completely lowering her bow.  “You may pass in peace, and you may trade with us if you like.”

            Alistair sighed in relief.  “Well, thank the Ma-”

            Taniva shushed him.  “I don’t think you’re the one they want to talk to,” she whispered, “and if they did, I don’t think that’s what they would want to talk _about._ ”

            He cleared his throat quietly.  “Oh.  Yes.” 

            From then on, he remembered to let Taniva and Zev do all of the talking.  Not that there was much talking to be done:  nobody really spoke to them except for the scouts and the head of their craftsmen, whose exclusive province trade with the outsiders was.  These few showed basic civility to the two elves, and polite curiosity about their high status among the _shemlen_ , and one inquiry as to why, given the prowess that must have taken, they did not choose to return to the _elvhanen_ and do some real good.  But all Taniva’s requests to see the Keeper were rebuffed, and the Dalish would not even stand closer to the humans than strictly necessary, let alone talk to them.  Once it was obvious that the opportunity to discuss the Warden treaty was not going to arise, Taniva bought a few things, helped herself to one or two more, and led her people away.

            “We need the Dalish,” Alistair frowned, “and we may not get this chance again.  Zevran, you were speaking their language, weren’t you?  Couldn’t you, ah, impress them a bit more?”

            “Not really, no.  How shall I explain this?  Imagine that the Dalish are wolves.  They see city elves as pet dogs, servants of their masters.  In the end, our Warden’s bearing only made her look like a mabari instead of a lap dog.  As for me, I am like a stray that escaped into the woods, but could not adapt to forest and pack, and ran back to eat scraps in the city.  Preventing you from being shot was about as much as that status gives me.”

            “Not being shot is good.  I’m not complaining about that part.”

            “Anyway,” Taniva interjected, “if they had wanted very much of our time, we could not have given it to them, not without risking Arl Eamon.  We’ll just have to hope we can find a clan again later, since Zev knows what to look for.”  Zev smiled and inclined his head – he always liked it when she pointed out his usefulness.

            Of course, she thought.  In the life he’d known before, his usefulness had been the only currency he could depend on.  How depressing.  To change the subject in her head, she nudged Zev’s shoulder with hers as they walked.  “Why _did_ you leave the Dalish, actually?”

            “I will tell you exactly why.  Have you ever been inside an aravel, my Warden?  I have.  The Dalish are always moving, and that has effects on their lifestyle that were not to my taste.  Being Dalish guarantees that you will never have a soft bed, or a warm bath, or properly aged wine.  And they are not nearly as promiscuous as one might imagine for a wild, wandering people.”  He grinned.  “I am absolutely a city dog, as it turns out.”

            She laughed.  “I can see how that wouldn’t suit you.  Of course, I’m not offering much better at present.”

            “Nonsense.  With you I sometimes get inns with proper meals and beds.  And you make much better use of my particular skills.  Less than I would like, of course, but I wait and I hope.”

            As much as she was coming to want that to be true, her heart sank a little.  Her recent thoughts resurfaced, and she made an unpleasant connection between _use of his skills_ and _usefulness as currency._   It might just be his way of blunting his flirtations for her comfort, of course, but then again it might not.

            Or... she might be using that as an excuse, because _she_ was a sodding coward about letting anyone get that close to her.  She sighed in disgust at herself, then covered by holding his hand.  He squeezed it, and they kept walking.

**  
**


	21. Gift Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloves! You are giving me gloves??

            Zevran sat down under a tree – there were plenty to be had out in the forest – and mused over the sock he had stolen out of Taniva’s pack.  He was going to give it back, of course:  it was a personal treasure, and he did not really want to deprive her of it.  Just to study it for a while.

            He passed his thumb over the uneven stripes.  The yarn varied not only in color but in thickness:  Taniva’s cousin had taken what must be dozens of strands of whatever seemed soft and bright enough, whatever amounts they could find, to make this item.  He wondered how many of the pieces his Warden had found or stolen, and smiled a little.

            What made it a marvel to him was its context.  The fact that it had been made for her specifically by someone close to her, a perpetual symbol of that closeness.  Things like this did not exist in his world:  he passed it through his fingers over and over again as if it were some kind of talisman.  As if the rows of stitches were like prayer beads, and something could be gained from the Maker by praying over socks.

            “Zev?”  Her voice startled him out of his thoughts, and he rose to his feet, awkwardly hiding the purloined bit of clothing behind his back.  He was too slow.  “Is that my sock?  Where did you find it?”

            “Yes,” he said, handing it over to her.  “Paisan had it.”

            “Figures.”  She inspected the sock quickly and smiled in approval.  “At least there isn’t much drool on it this time.  Thank you.  Actually I wanted to talk to you about – ”  She hung her head a little, and he thought she might be blushing.  “Well, no.  Actually I wanted to give you something.”

            She tucked the sock into her belt pouch and brought out a pair of leather gloves.

            He frowned at them, confused, running through possible reasons in his mind.  She was not equipping him, because he already had gloves at least as good.  Gloves given between Crows meant _I wash my hands of you,_ but she should not know that.  Should she?  They couldn’t be given at weddings, he knew that.  Perhaps the implied brush-off held true everywhere.  But he thought he’d been doing so well.  Payment in advance?  She’d never done that before.  What kind of job would she change their rule for?

            “Gloves,” he said at last, and more defensiveness showed in his voice than he would have liked.  “You are giving me gloves?  Why?”

            She looked at him blankly, perhaps with a glimmer of hurt.  “They’re Dalish.  Like your mother’s.”

            “Like my – ”  He took them from her outstretched hands and looked at them more carefully.  Yes, that was right, he had told her about that last token of his heritage, the one he had clung to until the Crows took him.  And she’d found these:  not even just one of the simple pairs such as the Dalish were willing to sell to them as outsiders, but properly embroidered.

            “Maker’s breath,” he whispered.  “They are.  The leather is a little thicker, and the embroidery is not quite – ”  He glanced up at her again, and her tension was not quite gone:  he was not saying the right things.  He corrected course.  “But they are quite similar.  And very handsome.  Thank you.”

            There, that made her smile.  “You’re welcome.”

            “Do I seem surprised?  I am.  No one has just… given me a gift before.”

            A little laugh.  “I’ll have to do it again sometime.  Catching you off your guard is sort of amusing.”

            “Oh, is it?”  They paused, clearly both expecting him to follow with something provocative, but he was, in fact, too far off his guard to think of it.  “I am surprised that you remembered.”

            “Of course I did.  I like you, Zev.”

            The words felt more meaningful, more enticing than they should be.  “Do you.  Enough for an embrace?  Just in gratitude, you understand.  I will behave myself.”

            She stepped into his arms willingly, the first time she had done so on his request.  He immediately regretted his promise to behave, and wondered how much further he might have convinced her to go.  He turned his head just enough to brush his cheek against hers, testing the water.

            She gasped just a little, and he felt her lips brush softly against his jaw.  But she pulled away before he could return the gesture, fleeing back to the others.  Slow work, his Warden.  He had never had to try so hard.

            Still, he was making progress.  He sat down and started massaging the leather of the gloves between his fingers as he had been doing with the sock.  Mystified.

**  
**


	22. Dalish Leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran takes one last stab - as it were - at pretending he's still who he was as a Crow. He fools no one.

            He was on watch, and he had finally won enough of their trust to be able to step out of the sight of his watch partner.  Even Alistair had gone to sleep and stopped monitoring him.  Incessantly.  Such an innocent and yet so canny, especially where his fellow Warden was concerned.  Possessive as a dragon, and with so little discernable encouragement from her end.  Fascinating.  Anyway, tonight he was not an obstacle.  Sten was his fellow watchman, and his attention was clearly outward, away from the camp, not inward.

            They’d escaped notice in Denerim this time, but once they passed back out of the forest they would be on open road again, and sooner or later people would know – and know that Zevran had defected.  He had to choose once and for all:  stand with this peculiar little party, or run, or reconcile with the Crows before that stopped being an option.

The realization made him uneasy.  He was safer in the group than alone, but then again, personal loyalties could always sour, as he knew only too well.  If he was ever to have a chance of going back to the Crows, it would have to be tonight.  This was the opportunity, before they emerged from their hiding.  He could even say that it had been his plan all along, to feint and win his way into the group, maneuvering himself into a better position from which to strike.  Perhaps he would even come to believe it himself.

            Taniva would have to be first.  She was their leader, their heart.

            It was not the first time Zevran had slipped through the darkness toward her tent, always without going in, without actually asking her why she had yet to exact the payment he had offered for his life.  He knew that she had very strong feelings about free will in such matters, but it was hard to imagine how to make his willingness more obvious without making a demand himself.  And yet she was not nearly as cool with him as with Alistair, so he could not believe it was lack of interest that held her back.

            None of that was going to matter any more.  A pity.

            He eased the tent flap open just enough to pass through, and knelt on the ground beside her cot.  Her dark hair blended into the shadows around her, but her pale skin seemed almost aglow, even here.  He’d been aching to see the rest of it, and it had never happened.

            He could still wake her up, he supposed.  He could proposition her more directly, and take this last chance before he slit her throat.  It was nothing he had not done before.  It was what he should already _be_ doing, if that was his intent; and if not, his dagger should already be in his hand.  Why was he wasting time like this?

            He subconsciously clutched his fingers as if the knife was there, and felt the soft leather shift over his hand – and then he sneered at himself.  He was wearing _these_ gloves.

            He’d been warned that she was lovely when he took the job, but he had not expected her to be so open, so quick to trust him.  She had spared him and demanded nothing:  she had even told him he was free to leave if he liked.  And so, somewhere along the way, he had started telling her stories that were _true,_ and she had responded in kind.  She knew about the whorehouse and the fanciful hunt for the Dalish; he knew about the Alienage and the Arl’s wretched son.  He’d caught himself just short of telling her about –

            And she’d given him Dalish gloves.  Not as a bribe or a payment, but out of simple friendship, because he’d had a pair when he was young.  Because they were elves in the cruel human world together, two downtrodden souls who had become weapons instead of victims.

            And he’d taken to actually wearing them, and now his mind was on the feeling of them on his skin rather than on drawing his weapon.  He stared at her, sleeping peacefully for once, and tried to force himself to at least imagine doing her the harm he’d come to do.

            No.  He couldn’t do it.

            He sighed a little too loudly, then caught his breath, more and more frustrated with his own softness.  He would have to face it now:  he was no longer an assassin, but a Warden’s bodyguard.

            Worse, Sten caught him as he gave up and retreated back outside.  Zevran froze in place as he realized that the huge creature was staring at him with even more than the usual amount of scorn in his eyes.

            The qunari closed the gap between them in two long strides.  “Did something in her tent need assassinating?” he asked.

            A little tightness in his throat as he responded.  “Ahhh, no.”

            “Then this is not where you need to patrol.”

            “No, no, of course not.  I was just… checking on a noise I heard.  Now that my concern has been alleviated, I will return to my post.  As should you.”

            Sten scowled – but then again, he was always scowling; his face was fiendishly unreadable that way.  “I knew it was foolish for the men and the women to share an encampment,” he grumbled, and walked away toward the dwarven cart.

            With an embarrassing wave of relief, Zevran retreated in the opposite direction.  For a while, he wandered among the trees to clear his thoughts.  If he couldn’t harm his Warden – ah, there it was, wasn’t it, the whole problem, this irrational insistence that she was _his Warden_ – then returning to the Crows was impossible.  And so was sneaking off on his own, he was coming to fear, because he was feeling more and more reluctant even to leave her.  Because he wanted her.  Not just a warm body, a woman, a raven-haired elf, but her in _particular._

            And if he wasn’t going to leave, he might as well be sitting by the fire, warm and comfortable.  So he did, and as the dance of the flames slowly erased his tension, he was able to remember how particularly boring it was to be on watch with Sten, since he was the least talkative of the lot.  Including Paisan.

            A little restless noise from his Warden’s tent.  Perhaps he had disturbed her sleep.  No, it was something more than that:  joining the rustling of movement were plaintive sounds, whimpering.  He thought to go and check – no.  She would not welcome the intrusion awake, and in any case Sten was no doubt paying closer attention now, and would come down on him like... well, like a qunari. 

            Eventually she came out herself, enough disturbance in her face that he instinctively turned and pretended he had not been looking.  From the corner of his eye, he watched her stare off into the distance, still not quite present.

            “Awake already, my Warden?  It is not your watch yet.”

            She startled as she turned toward his voice; but as soon as she saw him, her body started to relax again.  “Just clearing my head,” she said softly.

            “Ah.  Bad dreams, then.”

            She nodded.  “One of the many benefits of being a Warden.”

            Why?  Why would she lie to him now?  “Indeed.  Except that I have heard nothing from Alistair’s tent, as I do when it is a dream of the archdemon.  So it was something else.”

            She hugged herself and looked down at him with a lost child’s eyes.  It was the vulnerability that she hated, he thought:  she’d told the King about Vaughan easily because she’d been able to throw it into his face like a gauntlet, but confessing it to those close to her in moments when it caused her weakness?  That was quite different, and a problem he understood more deeply than he could tell her.

            “Yes,” he said to her silence.  “There is no shame in that, you know.  The deep cuts take the longest to heal.  Come, perhaps you would like to sit with me for a moment.”  He reached one hand up to her.

            After a moment’s hesitation she lowered herself to the ground beside him and curled her knees in toward her chest, a ball of self-consciousness, unable to relax any further.

            He sighed.  “Have you always faced this down all by yourself?”

            She would not look at him as she answered, but at least she spoke.  “No.  I... had Shianni.”

            “Your cousin.  And what would she do when this happened?”

            She lowered her head and made a noise of disgust rather than answering.  Her breath started quickening as if she might be about to cry, and he was starting to wonder if it was even wise to ask her again when she turned and nestled against his shoulder.

            His breath hitched.  She trusted him.  She trusted him to hold her when she was thinking about violation.  Slowly, tentatively, he put his arm around her and leaned his head against hers.  He could feel the tension beginning to drain out of her body, and the rhythm of her breathing, and the softness of her skin where it touched his neck.  Without thought he closed his eyes and brought up one hand to stroke her hair.

            If only she weren’t so _afraid._   If only some rich _shem_ bastard had not taken it upon himself to teach her to dread a man’s touch.  They would have been lovers by now – he was surer than he had ever been.

            No point dwelling on that.  For the moment it was enough that he be allowed to console her, and that he was starting not to be denied physical contact.  He felt something in himself relaxing along with her, a discomfort he only fully acknowledged now that it was fading:  he had needed to hold her as much as she had needed to be held.  That was just the sort of creature he was; it was the way he knew to connect to people.

            While he was holding her, he belonged.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter, more than any other, shows the effects of having been written as a one-off and then inserted into the full narrative. Let's agree that it represents how hard he's lying to himself right at the moment.


	23. Near Misses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sten is tired of this foolishness, and demands to be put in charge.

            There had been a lot wrong with this idea, she realized that now.  It should have been obvious enough on the way from Redcliffe to Denerim, but now, on the way _back_ , it was even clearer.  Everything south of Ostagar was hostile territory:  no real roads even in the best of times, and as of the darkspawn invasion, not a single safe place to find provisions or lodging.  And also, of course, more opportunities than elsewhere to run into wandering patrols of darkspawn.

            Not that there was any help for it, since the alternatives had all involved passing through spaces where Loghain’s view would be much clearer.  Possibly they could have used the southern roads without attracting his attention, but then that would have taken them back through Ostagar, and Taniva wasn’t convinced Alistair was ready for that, especially if they happened across hurlocks playing stickball with the king’s head and Duncan’s gnawed leg.

            She was imagining describing that mental picture to Zev and wondering whether he’d laugh when she realized how bad it was.  For days she’d been feeling oppressed and irritable, and suddenly she could pinpoint what it was:  her ability to sense the darkspawn was screaming with overstimulation.  None were near enough to create the feeling she’d grown to recognize, but there were a great many somewhere – off in several directions from where she was.  As of today, they were far enough behind the line to make her skin crawl.

            Maybe that was why she’d been finding Alistair less friendly than usual, for that matter.  She asked him, and his face went thoughtful for a moment, and then disturbed.  “You’re right.  Thinking about it... I think I felt this way at Ostagar.”  He crossed his arms, pondering.  “The good thing is, they should actually have more trouble finding us, because Warden levels of taint in space they occupy would be a needle in a haystack.  I think.”

            Taniva felt slightly ill.  “You _think._ ”

            “I only have six months on you, Tan, and I’ll remind you how much Duncan liked putting off talks about the hard things until later.”

            “So we’re agreed that we’re in trouble, and we don’t know how much.”

            “If Wardens can _feel_ where the darkspawn are,” Sten interjected, “why do we not track them down and destroy them?”

            Surprisingly, it was Alistair who snapped.  “Because there aren’t _enough_ of us, Sten!  There were hundreds of them in Ostagar when they beat the people who trained me, and there’ll be hundreds more by now!  Do the qunari ever even _bother_ with strategy, or have they been getting by on brute force all this time?”

            Sten scowled – really actively _scowled_ , and it was not pretty.  “What are you suggesting, Alistair?”

            “I’m suggesting that I’ve figured out why you lost all your men.”

            Taniva leapt between them as they both grabbed at their swords.  “No!” she yelled, hoping to the Maker her instinct that the many darkspawn were outside the range of the noise was correct.  It was hard to glower _upward_ at Sten, but she did her best.  “If you raise your weapon against any member of this party, Sten, you raise it against me.”

            “So be it,” the giant snarled.  “Your party requires leadership that you are obviously not providing.”

            Around the edges of her vision she could see several of the others moving in, preparing to protect her.  “Get back,” she told them, not breaking her eye contact with Sten.  “We need to settle this.”  Slowly, reluctantly, they backed away. 

            Sten stepped back a pace as well, to make room as he drew his gigantic blade and swung it loosely before him in preparation.  “So at least you are willing to do this honorably,” he murmured.  “Good.”

            She tossed and caught the dagger in her right hand.  Sure, she thought.  She was an _honorable_ thief and apprentice assassin.  So important to give fair odds to those that were already twice her size, after all.  “Are you?  If I make you submit here, will this be over?”

            “If you can put me down, I will follow without question.  If you cannot, I expect the same from you.”

            _Good luck with that._   She nodded and settled into a waiting crouch.  Obviously she was going to have to go low:  the question was what he would leave exposed, and how she would move inside his terrifyingly long reach to hit it.

            Of course he knew that reach and strength were his advantages:  Alistair’s harsh words about strategy aside, Sten’s grasp of _tactics_ was sound.  With a horrible whooshing noise, his two-handed sword hurdled toward her neck.  She dropped and rolled forward, closer to him, only managing a tiny cut to the tendon behind his ankle before she had to scurry away again, because he was also quicker than his size seemed to imply.  His swings aimed downward, meant to catch her as she scampered and somersaulted out of their way, once in a while stealing enough time to deliver more little abrasions in between the pieces of his armor – the back of the knee, the inside of the elbow.

            To someone unconcerned about the outcome they must have looked ridiculous – a tiny lap dog worrying ineffectually at a monster’s heels.  It was a great relief to her when he finally started to sway as if losing his equilibrium.  As he frowned and tried to find it again, it slowed him down, and she was able to press closer for longer, finally managing to lodge her off-hand dagger in his side.  He dropped to his knees, shaking his head.

            She stepped back and waited.  Sten tried to stagger back to his feet, failed, tried again, fell to hands and knees, panting.

            “You’re down,” she said quietly.  “Which of us is the leader?”

            “You poisoned me,” he muttered.

            “Do I look like someone who wins on muscle, Sten?”  She stepped forward and knelt in front of his face.  “Which of us is the leader?”

            “You are.”

            She nodded and paced decisively back toward her companions, who for the most part were agape but seemed pleased with the outcome.  Zev, however, was grinning as if the victory had been half his own.  “Does he need an antidote, my Warden?”

            She passed just close enough for them to brush each other’s shoulders with their fingertips as she went by.  “He does.  That yellow one – the one with the feverfew.”

            “I will fetch it, then.  Do not trouble yourself with it.”

            Meanwhile, Morrigan hurried forward to beat Wynne to Sten’s cuts, which was amusing.

            Emotionally, Taniva was relieved to have the issue resolved, but _physically_ she felt more jumbled than ever.  Fortunately, she found no resistance to the idea of making camp earlier than usual.  Everyone was making a show of being cooperative and helpful after the ugly scene with Sten, so while the rest of them prepared the site and pitched the tents, she was able to take Sten aside privately for a moment.

            “No hard feelings?”

            He sighed.  “No.  You only confirmed what I already knew.  So did Alistair.  I failed my _beresaad_ – my men,” he clarified for her.  “I lost my spirit when I lost them.”

            She nodded.  “You will get it back in time.”

            “How?  I do not know where it is.”

            “...I think we must not be talking about the same thing.”

            “My _sword,_ ” he said.  “It is part of me.  I should have died with it in my hand.  There is no returning to my people without it.”

            His “spirit” was in his sword, then, or actually was his sword.  A strange idea, but she’d heard stranger.  “Didn’t you look for it?”

            “I awoke in a barn surrounded by humans, and it was not there.  I... panicked.  I killed them unjustly, and when I realized what I had done, I allowed myself to be captured.  And then you took me.”

            All along it hadn’t been pure surliness driving him after all.  Well, maybe not, anyway.  “We’ll look for it when there’s time,” she assured him.  “Tell me when we’re near the place.”

            He inclined his head to her.  “You are a generous leader.”

            She smirked.  “I’m a practical leader.  I’m assuming you’d be of more use to me whole.”

            The frown lines on his face came dangerously close to vanishing entirely, making what she had to interpret as almost a smile.  “I will have to stop underestimating you.”

 


	24. Power Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the way to win is to submit. (sex chapter)

She still felt tangled and uncomfortable when she left Sten to his brooding, even though the sight of Shale replacing her next to him was faintly amusing.  They could bond over being great hulking beasts together, she supposed, and maybe Shale could protect Sten from Morrigan’s determined infatuation.

Camp was almost set up for the night.  She wandered over to Alistair and sleepwalked through a conversation about the effect being in darkspawn-occupied territory was having on both of them, and then his thanks for handling the near-disaster with Sten.  Not even Alistair was quite focused on the talking, since his nerves were as bad as hers.  Afterward, she started meandering aimlessly around camp, under the lengthening shadows between the tents.

It was Zevran who stopped her, holding her still by the arms as he normally had the tact not to do.  “Are you well, my Warden?  You do not seem like yourself.”

“It’s this place.  I need to get the fuck out of this place.”  She looked wearily into his probing eyes.  “When we go back after the Dalish, we’ll have to go by the roads.  I don’t think Alistair and I can do this again.”

“Hmm.”  With one finger, he brushed across her brows to push aside the lock of hair that always wanted to fall into her face.  “Perhaps you are right.  I don’t like to see so much tension in your lovely eyes.”

She scoffed.  “I’m a Grey Warden.  There’s _always_ tension in my lovely eyes.”

She wasn’t quite sure what happened next – whether she moved first to walk around him, or he moved to let her aside – but they both went in the same direction, so when she stepped forward it was only to crash into him, and he caught her by the waist to stop her.

            He made no move to release her, nor did she pull away.  They were both still at first, trying to take each other’s measure without asking.  Slowly, his hands stroked down the small of her back and pulled her tighter against him.  She could feel herself breathing faster, almost trembling, and she realized that she couldn’t read herself accurately, let alone him.  The parts of her that weren’t scarred _wanted_ this, wanted him – it was just so hard to be sure –

            “Ssh,” he breathed into her ear, “ssh.”  His lips brushed against the side of her throat, and she gasped at the chill that went through her.  She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, and in response he sighed and pressed even closer.  A hand came back up to stroke her hair away where it fell between them.  “Relax,” he cooed.  “You are so tense.”

            That much she knew.  The information wasn’t enough to help her sort out what she was feeling or how to respond to it.  When he started to plant real, deliberate kisses on her throat, she thought she might actually be shaking.

            “Relax,” he said again, and then she felt his lips curl upward.  “Perhaps we should go to your tent, and I can give you a... massage.”

Maker’s breath, was that a _line?_   No matter how much she wanted him, she could not risk this much of herself for a _line._   “No,” she whispered.  “No, Zev.”

            He went very still; his lips left her skin but stayed close enough for his breath to warm her ear.  “That was a very weak _no_ , my Warden,” he sighed.  “I am sorely tempted to ignore it.  Sadly I do not dare, with you.”  With that he pulled away from her, and without another word or even a look back, walked to the fire where the others were gathering.

            “Alistair!” he said loudly.  “Allow me to massage your shoulders.  I worry about you Wardens – so much stress, hmm?”

            Mockery.  Alistair looked at him with confused suspicion, and Taniva, with growing contempt.

            But Zevran was good at what he did – generally – and soon, Alistair had agreed to suffer the elf’s ministrations, by the fire in clear view, above the waist only.  It was only moments before Alistair was groaning praises to the Maker and looking, indeed, much more relaxed.

Taniva was furious, and only more so because the reason seemed so stupid.  Alistair frowned over at her when she took a bottle of wine for herself and went off to sulk on the far end of camp, well away from the fire, but he did not pursue her.  He had learned enough about being a brother to know when _not_ to pry; and really he was too distracted anyway.

Zevran, on the other hand, seemed to have no qualms about coming to join her once he was done with his little display.  He lowered himself gracefully onto the cold ground near where she sat, not spilling a drop of his own drink as he did so.  Physically, so perfectly graceful.

“Why is my Grey Warden drinking all by herself in the cold, I wonder?” he purred, smiling as if he couldn’t imagine that he was the one who had annoyed her.

She was hot in the face, despite how cool the night was.  Some combination of anger and drink, which not only made her blush but destroyed the thin veneer of subtlety she had worked so hard to build.  “I deserved better, didn’t I?”

His grin only widened.  “I feel compelled to agree, even though I am not sure what you are talking about.  Whatever it is you wanted, I am sure you deserved it.”

“Don’t give me that!” she snapped, and then tried to cover her stupid, girlish rage by taking too large a swig of wine, which nearly made her choke.  “You.  I was starting to think we really trusted each other.  That I wasn’t just a joke, like Wynne.  You were talking to me like I was _real,_ and I would have – ” she felt her cheeks burning even brighter, and had to will herself to ignore the light of triumph she was afraid she saw in his eyes at her near admission.

“Hmmm.  Would have… what?”

“A _massage,_ ” she growled, even as she lamented inside her head that she was clearly too deep in her cups and ought to shut her mouth.  “You waited that long to ask, and in all that time that was all you thought of?  To ask if I wanted a _massage?_   You could have done better in your sleep!”

He answered with an absurdly false sigh.  “Ah, it is true.  It was an approach unworthy of you.  I wonder why I would have done such a thing.”

“So do I.  Maybe you just like making people angry.  I don’t see why I thought I was the exception to your rule.”

“Let me ask you something.  What would you have done if I had said something very beautiful to seduce you?  If I had done wicked things to you in your tent?”  He let her stew in her inability to answer him for a long moment before he gave an answer himself.  “You would have placed me beside Vaughan in your mind, along with everyone else who has ever tried to take something from you.”

She stared down at the rubble around her feet, scuffling it under her boots, pretending that was much more fascinating and important than looking him in the face.  “I would never have done that.”

“You can be a very angry woman, Taniva.  I know you.  At any rate, I did not want to take the risk.  I wanted it to be _your_ idea.  But I admit, I got impatient for you to raise the subject yourself.  I can see that you consider it, and yet you deflect every indirect offer, and if I simply press forward you shut down.  Do you see the predicament you have created for me?”

She marveled at how well he had cornered her.  Now she couldn’t decide whether to be outraged that he was using her darkest thoughts to manipulate her, or flattered that he had committed them to memory.  She wished for another bottle:  this one was running out.  “I do, in fact,” she said at last.  “It is still odd that your plan to avoid making me angry revolved around making me angry.”

“It was a calculated risk, of course.  Everything interesting is.”  He reached across to the hand that held the bottle and gently lifted it out of her grasp.  “But the point was to initiate the discussion in a way that would still allow you be the one in control.  And here we are.”

“You have a very strange notion of logic.”  She dared to glance at him sidelong, and that was a mistake, because she found that she could not look away again.  He was watching her very intently, coiled in that way he had that seemed simultaneously relaxed and yet ready to spring at any moment.  But he remained at a respectful distance.

Those bright eyes of his.  Perilous.  “So,” she said, after a long pause.  “Here we are, indeed.  And why would I be the one to proposition you?”

“Because, my Gray Warden, I am perfect for you.  I demand nothing.  In fact, I have sworn my service to you, if you will remember.  I am a safe passage back into the sexual world, because I will do nothing but what you ask of me.  At the same time, you need not worry about my own desire to participate.  I hope I have made that clear by now.”

This was normally the point at which he would reach out and stroke her hair reassuringly, or some other such gesture.  But this time, he did nothing but continue to sit and watch her reactions.  Proof of his benevolent intentions, she supposed.  She leaned in closer to him instead, testing his resolve.  “Nothing but what I say.  Really.”

“On my word of honor.”

Closer still:  he would barely have to lean forward to kiss her.  “On your word of honor as a Crow.”

She could feel his breath, see the playful twinkle come into his eyes, but he still made no move.  “Tsk tsk, how you continue to hold my past against me.  It is so cruel.”

She lingered there, waiting.  Daring him to break down and kiss her, wanting him to, even if he was right about how it would make her turn on him.  She would still have had the kiss, and the victory.  Still he only stared down at her lips, unmoving.  Daring _her_ to test him.

“Fine, then,” she whispered.  “I will let you prove it.  Into the tent with you.”

He gave a contented sigh, near enough for her to feel on her skin, and rose effortlessly to his feet.  She stood up without taking the hand he offered her, then led him back toward her tent, ignoring the curious and somewhat disapproving glances they received on the way.  None of the others had ever understood how it was between her and Zevran, and she didn’t expect them to start now.

She went in first, lit the lantern as he held the tent flap open for the moonlight until they could see without it.  When it was glowing, she nodded, and he let the flap fall shut and stood there motionless, his head cocked slightly to the side as he waited for her order.

“And you’re sure this is the way you want it,” she mumbled.

“Dear lady, if the idea offended me, I would not have come into the tent.  Do not hesitate on my account.”

She closed in on him, uncertain of how to proceed now that she had him here.  He was watching her with a gentler look than she had expected, though still with that smile he wore when everything was going to plan.  If not for that smile, she would think that maybe –

_Maybe he was clumsy because he isn’t used to caring about the answer.  Maybe this is just one of his miraculous recoveries._

Soris would have thought she was being ridiculous to think such a thing, projecting a heart where none existed.  Shianni would have thought it was adorable.  But neither of them was here.

She raised one hand to stroke his cheek, and he cocked his head toward it like a cat being petted, his lids dropping.  In the dim light, the blue mark on the upturned side of his face looked like an old scar.  She kissed it, very softly, and he sighed into her neck.  Her lips played along his jaw toward his mouth and brushed against it without locking.  He drew in his breath, but made no attempt to draw her into a real kiss.  Vexed, she took hold of his head and forced the issue herself.  His lips parted easily, and he accepted her tongue into his mouth with obvious pleasure. 

As she drew her hands down to open his shirt and touch his bare chest, she felt his shoulders shift in the wrong direction.  He was moving his hands behind his back.  “What are you doing?” she whispered, breaking away from the kiss only just enough to speak.

“Making sure I keep my word.  We made an agreement, did we not?”

“You are taking it very literally.”  She eased the shirt away from his taut shoulders, and he dropped his hands for long enough to let it fall to the floor.  “You’re not going to touch me at all?  Really?”

“Until I am invited, no.”

He was muscular in the elven way:  not large, but sinewy.  The skin on his torso was the same dark, burnished gold as his face, a rich color so different from her own that she kept thinking it should _taste_ different, even though it didn’t.  She slid her hands over his pectorals, marveling at his loveliness and his refusal to move.  “And this is supposed to impress me and make me want you more, is it?”

“I was rather hoping it would.”

It was true that she seemed to keep tracing her fingers along the same routes up and down the length of his chest.  “What if it makes me think you don’t want me enough?”

“Then I will be saddened to learn how little you are paying attention.”

“Hmm.”  Having no retort, she ended the discussion by pressing her mouth to his again, which was pleasing, but also drew her attention that much more to the fact that he would not embrace her.  She sent a hand down below his waist, and felt him hardening through the cloth.  He hissed a little at her touch there, and the pressure against her palm grew.  True enough, then, that desire was not at issue.  Somehow, that made her want to punish him for his inaction.

Taniva stepped back one pace and began to unlace her own shirt, slowly, watching his eyes sweep down along her skin as she revealed it.  The shirt dropped, and she lowered her hands to her belt, his gaze following, his breath quickening like hers.  She eased the pants down from her hips and stepped away from them, then brought her arms up slowly around herself, the embrace that he was refusing her.  That made up for neither the night chill nor the lack of contact, and she stepped forward again to press against him.  His skin was warm against hers, and her pulse raced as she returned to fondling and kissing him.  He returned her kisses eagerly – and returned his hands to behind his back.

Maddening.  With more roughness she unbuckled his belt and shoved his pants downward.  He stepped out of them, obedient, and in the moment when she dropped her head to make sure they were gone, she heard him gasp a little as his lips trailed after hers, objecting to the loss.  She smiled just a little, and instead of returning to him, pulled down on his hips as she dropped to her knees.  He followed her lead.

“I admit that you are surprising me,” she said, licking the side of his neck.  He did not answer, but tilted his head away to expose his throat more, a silent request to continue.  Of course, she thought, he would be as skilled in the passive as the active role, as often as he had been called upon to use it for – oh dear, she had best stop thinking about that.  He really did want her.  She was sure she saw that, in the sparkle of his eyes.  At this point, he could not still think he needed to pretend it to stay in her company. 

She kissed her way down his torso; he watched, panting, and she could almost _hear_ him wishing his hands into her hair to guide her.  So she slowed down, veered teasingly off to the side rather than straight down to the mark, stroked his hard thighs.  When at last she slid the tip of her tongue across his head, he gasped.  Her mouth closed slowly over him, caressing his shaft as his hips instinctively rolled toward her.

A throaty chuckle.  “Ah, now,” he rasped.  “Now you are just being wicked.”

She pulled him deep into her throat once before releasing him.  “Am I?”  She rose again to whisper into his ear.  “What would you do if I sent you back to your tent now?”

His voice was quiet, slightly strained.  “I hope you would let me put my pants on before I left.  Then I would go back to my tent.  And then I would cry a little.”

“I wouldn’t want that.”  She grazed his earlobe with her teeth.  “I’m done with the game, Zev.  Touch me.”

There was one second of hesitation, as if he was going to try to hold out a little longer, ask her where he ought to touch her; but then he surrendered.  He pushed her hair back from her face and kissed her deeply, pressing his body closer against hers.  With a turn of his wrists he leaned her head back to expose her throat.  Even after all their talks, for an instant she felt exposed and helpless, as if this was the invitation to the dagger.  Zevran had been absolutely right not to press her too quickly, it seemed.

She willed herself to breathe, and what touched her throat was not metal but lips and teeth, which nearly knocked the breath out of her again.  As she threw her arms around him, he laughed softly and lowered her back onto the pallet.  He reared up from her, slowly mapping her breasts and belly with one hand as his eyes danced over her shape.  Then the hand snaked down between her legs, and as she arched her back at the rush of sensation, he lowered his head to one of her breasts and circled the nipple with his tongue.  He sucked there and teased her with his fingers, and she writhed for him, tangling her fingers into his hair.

But this was still much slower than she found herself wanting to go, and she pulled his head up toward hers by the hair.  “Now,” she whispered, bucking toward him.  “Please.”

His fingers stayed where they were, and he kissed her chin and smiled, back to being cocky.  “Now, you say?  Now what, exactly?”

She grabbed him by the hips, snarling.  “ _Zev._ ”

“Ah.”  He eased into her slowly, kissing her at the same time, and she groaned in relief.  Gradually he came up to a steady rhythm, and his lips on hers became more forceful.  At first there was a faint ache, the remnants of tension and more than a year of disuse, but her body relaxed around him, and she tangled her limbs around his, letting his quiet hums of satisfaction soothe her.  She closed her eyes and floated in how wonderful it felt to be with him, her fingernails raking the backs of his shoulders. 

His endurance was as he’d promised – either that, or they’d fallen free of time somehow.  She suspected that he was being deliberately slow and gentle, and for a long time he did not break free of the kiss, which softened again as he began to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers.  Eventually he lifted his head, and when she opened her eyes she found him watching her, a look in his eyes that was new and unreadable to her.  He caught her gaze, and his changed to – what? Something even stranger – and he dropped his head beside hers.  His breath was hot on her neck, and now he was whispering something in a language she didn’t understand.

She stroked his hair.  “What are you saying?”

But he shook his head and withdrew from her instead of answering.  Before she could protest (as she was about to, vigorously) he took her hands to pull her back up to kneeling, then spun her to face away from him.  He brushed aside her hair to kiss the back of her neck, and she fell against him shivering.  His hands slipped under her arms and around to her breasts as he pulled her tight against him.

“This isn’t fair,” she purred.  “I thought this was supposed to be about me being in control.  From here I can’t do anything.”

He nuzzled just beneath her ear.  “Do you want me to stop, then?”

She sighed and traced her hands over his.  “I didn’t say that.”

His hands were roaming over her more quickly, with what seemed to be more passion and less art.  “It is true,” he whispered, “that the position that lends itself from here is less… dignified than I thought you would – here.  Onto your side.”  He urged her downward again, this time lying behind her, curled against her from head to foot.  His top hand settled just over her pubic bone, and then he pushed into her again, and they both sighed together.

This time he did not bother to control his speed, and she relished that.  But he was muttering in foreign tongues again, and because it was both feverish and incomprehensible it made her crazy.  “Is it at least something flattering?” she asked.

“Yes.”

His hand slipped down just a little further, stroking her in time with his thrusts, and then neither of them could speak again because she was whining so loudly.  The end came in one sweet, powerful burst, one instant in which even the constant ache of her tainted blood fell silent – and then they collapsed.

She couldn’t move.  She didn’t want to.  She lay in his arms, feeling his exhaustion wrapped around her own, and wanted to stay there.  “Are you going to stay for the night?”

“Mm.”  He nestled his face into her hair, giving her a slight squeeze.  “Did you want me to?”

“Unless you’d rather walk back past Alistair and Wynne right now?  I can’t imagine that they didn’t hear us.”

He laughed.  “No, I can’t imagine that either.  Not that they’ll fail to notice me leaving your tent in the morning.”  Another squeeze.  “Still, it must be very cold out there by now.  I will stay if you prefer it.”

“I do.”  She rested her arm over his to cement the deal.

**  
**


	25. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what it sounds like.

            It had been a long time since he woke up next to a warm body.  Zevran yawned and stretched lazily, then rolled onto his side to wrap an arm around the Warden who had finally succumbed to his charms.  She was, oddly, no less wonderful in the morning with the initial thrill of the chase gone.

...Well, not _that_ odd, really.  He wasn’t the sort to lose all interest after one visit, especially with someone both lovely and passionate.  And Taniva, underneath her thick defensive shell, was just as ardent a partner as he’d always suspected she would be.  She would certainly be worth another go.  As many as she asked for, if they were all going to be like this.

            She sighed, still half asleep, and leaned back into him a little bit, and he smiled.  It was comfortable and familiar, to a degree he would later realize it should not be.  In fact, perhaps it would be pleasant to just stay here and let the morning unfold slowly, rather than hurrying out to pack and get back on the road.

            That was not to be, however:  there was rustling outside from the others waking and performing their morning duties, and amongst those noises were sounds of growing panic, led by a voice that resolved, as it came closer, into Alistair’s.

            “No,” he was saying, “he’s not in his tent, and no one has seen him.  Where’s Tan?  She hasn’t come out?  Maker, what if he actually – ”

            And with that, the tent flap was thrown open, revealing a blinding flash of sunlight and the Templar’s silhouette.  Taniva snapped awake and bolted up to sit, clutching the blanket over her bare breasts and scowling as Zevran sat up more casually behind her.

            “Good morning, Alistair!” he smiled.  “What if I actually did what?”

            Alistair flustered and waved his hands between himself and them.  “Not – this.  Oh.  Sodding – never mind.”  Then he vanished just as quickly as he had appeared, his voice receding from them as he called to the others.  “Never mind!  False alarm.  They’re both, ah.  They’re fine.”

            Zevran chuckled into Taniva’s shoulder.  “Apparently he did _not_ hear us last night.  You see, you should have screamed.”

            “Then he would have come to see why I was screaming,” she smirked at him.  “Would that have been better?”

            “Hmm.”  He nipped her bare skin playfully.  “At any rate, it sounds like time to get up, no?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a one-off for a challenge prompt.


	26. The Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because they've finally gotten past the awkwardness doesn't make it a sure thing they'll get past it again. ...Just kidding, they do. But there's another bit of awkward first. (sex chapter)

            Three days.

            That was how long it had been since Zevran had finally gotten into his Warden’s tent.  His usual habit was to let his partner or partners approach him for any further contact, unless he had killed them.  He was lovely and skilled, and normally at no lack for potential conquests, so there was no need to appear over-eager.

            But it had been _three days._

            It made no sense.  A woman who would make him work so hard for a first tryst should by nature be eager for a second, having invested all that time herself.  True, some might be too timid to make the overture, but timidity was hardly Taniva’s problem.  She was willful and proud, and he’d had to maneuver her into asking for the _first_ encounter.

            Maybe that was it?  She thought it was his turn?

            Why was he even worrying about it?  If that well was already dry, he could shift his focus to Leliana, now that he was starting to reach the bard beneath the pious exterior.  She had lovely lips.  Or he could leave the band entirely, as Taniva repeatedly assured him he could do at any time.

            As if she didn’t even _care_ whether he stayed. 

            This was pointless.  Absurd.  Fortunately, Alistair was kind enough to provide an external focus for his frustration.  “You’re staring at her.”

            “What?”

            Alistair frowned.  “Don’t think nobody’s noticed.  We all _know._ ”

            Zevran put his hands behind his back, a formal posture.  “So I had assumed when you took the liberty of peeking.  Perhaps you need me to explain what the noises were?”

            “No, no.  I’d really rather you didn’t.”

            “You see, there are certain parts of a woman’s body that are extremely sensitive, and when you – ”

            “Stop that!  The point is, you’re not to do it again.”

            Zevran raised his eyebrows.  “Oh, am I not?  According to whom?”

            “Me.”

            “But this should be her decision, surely, and not yours.  Unless you are implying ownership?  She is only an elf, after all.  Did you buy her when I wasn’t looking?”

            He always got a perverse thrill from seeing Alistair angry.

            “Don’t start with that elven solidarity business!” the man snapped.  “That’s not what this is about.  I respect Taniva very deeply as a person.”

            “Mm-hmm.  Well, that being the case, you will want to act in the interest of her happiness.”

            “Exactly.”

            Zevran smirked.  “Perhaps I make her happy.”

            Now Alistair was flustered.  It was glorious.  “It’s not your job to make her happy!  You – you _assassinate_ people.  That’s what you do.”

            “Indeed.  By that logic, your only purpose in life should be to subdue apostates.  Morrigan is right over there, and you have yet to subdue her.”  His grin widened.  “Tsk tsk.  And you look so big and strong, too.  I imagine she is disappointed.”

            It would not come to blows.  They had at least gotten past that.  And invoking Morrigan was becoming something of a free pass between them.  “I notice you haven’t assassinated her, either,” Alistair retorted.

            “No one has paid me.  It is not a free service, you know.”

            “How much would you charge?”

            “Probably more than you have, I fear.”  He paused for effect.  “Now, if you wanted me to _annoy_ her a little bit, that I might consider doing for free.”

            “Anybody can annoy her.  I annoy her by breathing.”

            “Fine.  For five silvers, I will _charm_ her.  Is that more interesting?”

            Alistair actually smiled, just a little.  “Can’t be done.”

            Zevran laughed.  “A bet, then?”  He extended his hand to seal the bargain, and Alistair shook it.

            Taniva was approaching them:  Alistair cleared his throat and stepped away as she drew close.  He did not want to be caught in the act of trying to ward off his “rival,” as Zevran knew was now the real barrier between them.

            As if a noble-born human with no sexual experience could consider himself a rival for _his_ Warden.

            She was grinning in disbelief.  “Did I just see you and Alistair shake hands?”

            He bowed slightly.  “You did indeed.”

            “It makes me so happy to see you kids playing nicely.”  She moved in close to him – promising.  “Actually, um.  I was going to ask you something.”

            He leaned into her space a little bit, not enough to be intimidating.  Always best to err on the side of caution with her.  “May I respond in poetry?”

            She dropped her head a little and chuckled.  “I was wondering if… you would like to come back to my tent.”

            Was that all that had been missing?  _Playing nicely?_   He would have to make a point of being more amiable.  He moved a little closer still, and let the corners of his mouth turn upward a fraction of the amount they wanted to.  “Why?  Is there something in your tent that needs assassinating?  That is my specialty, or so I’m told.”

            There was the slightest frisson of doubt in her eyes, so he touched her hands, an assurance that the invitation was welcome even though he was teasing.  He couldn’t quite help it – there was something very charming in the way she responded to being teased.

            “The only one?” she asked.  “And here I thought we’d branched out to other things.  Or are you hoping you’ll vex me into making it an order?”

            “Hmm.  Would you?”

            “No.  But I might say please.”

            Again, that adamant refusal to command him.  It was alien, but he enjoyed it.  “Ooh!  How did you know that etiquette was my weakness?”  A light kiss, then, to affirm his consent.

            “It was just a blind hope, really.”  She gripped one of his hands more firmly and released the other, and led him back to her tent.  Alistair would be horrified, Zevran thought, and it amused him.  …No, no.  He must try not to think that way of Alistair if he intended to _play nicely._

            Once they were inside, rather than drawing him to her, she crossed her arms at him.  “Right, then.  I asked.  But I’m not going any further without a show of enthusiasm.”

            He laughed.  “A show of enthusiasm.  Was I showing resistance?”

            “Dammit, Zev!”  She looked surprisingly close to being upset.  “How are you not getting this?  I don’t want you to be here because you think you _have_ to be here.  It’s important to me.”

            He was to show enthusiasm without showing aggression, then.  It would be a fine line to walk.  He traced two fingers down her neck and let them linger between her breasts.  “You can be a very difficult woman, my Warden,” he said.  “Fortunately, I seem to find that attractive.”  He stroked her bottom lip with his tongue, and she gasped and gave way to him, letting him shift to press his mouth to hers and send his tongue deeper.  The hand at her chest slipped into her shirt and onto one breast, and with the other arm he pulled her close against him.

And there, there was that chill again that he had felt the first time.  That rush of additional intensity.  He hadn’t felt that since the best times with Taliesin and Rinna, and here it was twice in a row, and before he even had her naked.  Perhaps that should worry him.  For the moment, though, it was much too pleasant not to pursue.  He caressed her under the shirt until she started to subtly slide her body up and down against his.

That was enough to proceed on:  not so difficult, once things got started, to read how much she wanted.  Touch was so much easier than talk that way.  Not that sound was useless – he hummed softly in her ear on the way to the side of her throat, a sort of emphasis as he moved his hands to open and remove her shirt.  She shivered a little and let it fall, allowing herself a whimper as she brought her hands up against his chest.  He had to lift her elbows slightly to the sides to release the strap binding her breasts after he unfastened it.

Slowly.  This was the part of the dance he had given up the first time, and now that he had it he would take it slowly.  Breaking away, he sat down on her pallet and took her hands to encourage her to do the same.  As she knelt, he leaned forward and sucked her nipple into his mouth, and she gasped and leaned into him, putting her arms around his neck.  He held her there and flicked her with his tongue as he slowly passed his hands up and down her bare back.  Hers started to work at opening his shirt; after letting her almost finish, he grabbed her by the wrists and shook his head.

“Tsk tsk tsk.  Patience.  I have not given up my turn yet.”

That made her eyes light up; that was one of the things that compelled her, a push and pull between them.  One of a growing number of happy coincidences.  She bit her lip and waited as he completed the task himself and, without breaking eye contact, removed and set the shirt aside.

Without warning he grabbed her and twisted her around, flipping her down onto her back.  She squealed and then laughed as he pressed down on her – and stopped laughing as he ground against her and nibbled at her lips.  He was hard and losing the will to keep her waiting, but determined to complete the exploration he had been denied last time.  He licked and nipped his way down her torso as he worked on her pants, allowing her to stroke his hair without protest.  She lifted her hips for him as he slid the fabric off of them, taking the chance at the same time to stroke her ass and her thighs.

She seemed surprised when he parted her legs and continued to bring his mouth downward, and he paused to smile up at her.  “Never?  Really?”  He hoped for her sake that his grin did not look as predatory as it felt.  “My dear Warden, I am going to be such a bad influence on you.”

On this area of her body the skin was even paler and the hair darker for lack of exposure to the sun:  the contrast was striking.  He gently teased the lips open with his fingers and, after a brief moment of thought, decided to introduce her to the new concept directly rather than gradually.  He engaged with his whole mouth at once, lips and tongue closing over her both as a sensory assault and a way of holding on as she started writhing.  Her whole body was wracked by the initial wave:  her legs bent and she threw her arms up over her head, breathing in slow, loud gasps.  Her fingers dug into his hair so tightly that the tie holding his front braids came undone, and they fell forward.

She refused, however, to grace him with the desperate noises he wanted to hear.  He pressed his fingers harder into her soft thighs, pushing them up to give him a better angle.  He could feel her trembling as he brought a hand back down to probe her with his fingers, slow and deep, pulling just slightly at the place that should make her frantic.  Even that she greeted only with low, shaken groans, but that and her helpless writhing were pleasing enough.

When all her muscles locked for a moment and then her tugs at his hair suddenly and strongly changed direction, he relented.  He licked her thighs in approval as he pulled off his own pants at last.  “I have to admit,” he sighed playfully as he prowled back up toward her, “I was hoping you would scream.”

Her body was glistening with sweat and she was panting as if after a run, but she grinned at him.  “Couldn’t give you the satisfaction.  Maybe next time.”

“We are already making plans for next time?  Excellent.”  By way of reward, he took hold of her hips and rolled them so that she was on top.  After some minor adjustments she swayed back and took him into her –

Which was magnificent.  Much better even than it should have been.  This was _not_ new to her, or else she was naturally gifted:  she rocked back and forth over him at a steady pace and a delicious angle, reared up perfectly for viewing, her eyes half-shut and watching him through a blissful haze.

He stroked her sides, gazing up at her transfixed, and it dawned on him that what he felt was not only skill.  That feeling was coming over him again, like every sense had been magnified and focused on her.  Only now, it was growing beyond his experience.  Like their first encounter, it bewildered him enough to compel him to speak – fortunately in a tongue she did not know.  “ _Non capisco.  Che cosa mi stai facendo?”_

            She smiled and caressed his shoulders, and without realizing it, echoed him.  “I don’t understand you.”

            That only made it worse.  He twined his fingers with hers and pulled her down toward him, to give his mouth something safer to do.  The kiss made it worse too, but it did stop him talking, and the feeling was sublime, if alien.  He wrapped himself around her, his movements increasingly urging her to speed.  When she could move no faster, he thrust his own hips up to meet her.  And then control and rhythm were gone completely, and he clung to her, kissing her fiercely as sensation conquered him.

            She fell over him, her hair a dark curtain around his head, and he kept her there.  She left a trail of soft kisses across his face.  “You’re staying, aren’t you?” she whispered.

            He pushed some of her hair back out of her eyes.  “How would I go if I wanted to?  You have me pinned down.”

            She batted at him playfully.  “I mean after I move.”

            His eyes slowly closed as he sighed and put his arms back around her.  “Don’t move yet.”

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Non capisco. Che cosa mi stai facendo?”  
> "I don't understand. What are you doing to me?"


	27. A Perverse Communication

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven is awful. A promised massage is finally delivered. (sex chapter with anal)

            For as much as Zev liked to tell her he read no promise or obligation into their recent trysts, Taniva thought he was making even more of a point than before of staying close to her.  By the time they reached Haven he was as much a fixture behind her right shoulder as Alistair was at her left.  Yes, they still had separate tents, and sometimes even used them; yes, to some extent they made a respectful distinction between how they would behave toward each other when their companions were looking and when they weren’t.  But of course Zev’s definition of “respectful” was already more lax than some of them liked, and with Taniva he seemed perfectly happy to blur the line further when she allowed it.

            Happily, she liked to allow it.  She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed physical contact until she had it back.  It made her feel grounded: it even made the constant prickle of passing south of Ostagar tolerable, and once they were clear of the area and back in the mountain passes around Redcliffe, she felt as good as she could remember feeling since the day she’d almost been married.  Something as simple as a hand in hers or at the small of her back – if it was one she actually wanted there – made that much difference.

            It also made the steep hike into Haven more tolerable, which was lucky because otherwise she might have abandoned it entirely.  By the time they could see the roofs of the houses, her thighs had passed through aching, burning, and screaming into numbness.  Where the ground leveled off for the first tier of buildings she stopped dead, eyes closed in silent and unaccustomed thanks to the Maker.  The first thing she managed to say was “Inn.”

            It was not to be.  Not only was there not an inn, but the few townsfolk they could find were singularly unfriendly.  Indeed, hostile.  Indeed, murderous cultists who had to be killed off in waves after their _male priest_ ordered the outsiders destroyed.  Having to take down a bunch of zealots and a mage when she was already so tired made her irritable; when they found Brother Genitivi injured yet instantly eager to continue the climb up to where he suspected the Urn was, Taniva ordered him to figure out a place for everyone to rest for the night first.

            Lacking the inn, they decided to sleep in several houses close together, and to maintain their watches in case more crazy people came down upon them from up the mountain.  Zevran volunteered to use the house nearest where the road entered town – a sentry post, he said, and a way to ensure that no use was made of the bloody altar they’d found there.

            Morrigan crossed her arms at him.  “You compared it to something the Crows have done before.  Are you sure you have no intentions of using it yourself?”

            “I? No.  I have no talent for such things, and no interest.  Something about the whole idea of sacrifice is unappealing to me.  It ruins the spontaneity, don’t you think?”

            “Just as well,” Alistair hummed, looking at Morrigan.  “We wouldn’t want anyone doing blood magic without _you_ there.”

            “They aren’t really going to start this again, are they?” Shale complained.  “I’m not sure what they find so entertaining about saying the same things to each other over and over again.”  Sten nodded in agreement, and Morrigan looked away from them, pouting.

            “Still,” Zevran added more quietly, leaning toward Taniva, “perhaps it would be wise for someone to stay there with me and keep me out of trouble, hmm?”

            She leaned back into his shoulder.  “If you want Alistair to come and play with you, you should ask him yourself.”

            “Ah.  I thought perhaps your legs would be tired, and I could massage them for you.  Of course, the decision is yours.”

            That sounded perfect, actually.  He should have been a desire demon.  “Do I have your word there will actually be a massage?”

            He chuckled contentedly.  “Yes.  For the sake of clarity, do I have your permission to continue beyond massage if the mood seems right?”

            It was so wonderful to feel wanted and be able to respond with something other than revulsion.  “Assume that you do, unless I tell you to stop.”

            “Fair enough.”

            She didn’t even look around to gauge the others’ reactions:  all of her focus shifted toward getting to the house.  Now that she knew she could relax her legs felt like they weighed five hundred pounds each, and she dragged herself each shuffling step of the way.  After what felt like a thousand years, she found a door, and then a bed, where she threw herself down and did not move again.

            Zev, on the other hand, looked down at her with an easy smile and started removing his armor.  “Your first mountain, I take it?”

            “Andraste’s tits, I thought Redcliffe was bad.  Why don’t the rest of you feel as bad as I do?”

            “I’m sure some of them do.  And they are all hiding it until their fellows are not watching, like you did.”  He sat down next to her and started untying the laces of her armor for her.  “As for myself, I have a lot of training in how to tolerate discomfort.”

            She sighed, both at the thought and from the exertion of lifting herself up a little so the armor would come off when Zev pulled at it.  “I wish you had one story about your life that wasn’t awful.”

            “Are they that bad?  Hmm.”  When they were both down to the simple clothes they wore under their leather, he paused to stroke her hair, looking thoughtful.  “I was six.  Nana Juletta had gotten a box of chocolates from a grateful patron, and she let me have a few of them.  She was always nice to me that way.  I took them with me up onto the roof, which was where I went to be by myself.  It was a pretty spring day, and I stretched out and relaxed there for more than an hour, watching the clouds and eating chocolates.”

            For just an instant she braced herself for the ugly ending.  _And then they found you and beat you.  And that was the day you were sold to the Crows.  And when you got up, you fell off the roof and broke your leg._   When she realized it wasn’t coming, she sighed again and relaxed, and felt like she was sinking into the bed.  Her eyes drifted shut; she felt him plant soft kisses across her face, and his hands slipping under her shirt, stroking her skin gently.  When her mouth started to seek his, however, he sat up.

            “The massage first,” he smiled.  “Before I forget my promise.”  With that he rose from the bed and was gone for a moment.  She was too tired to try to see where he was or what he was doing, so she continued to lie facing the ceiling, observing the soreness that was creeping through her body.

            Zev came back into her awareness with the sound of things being placed on the nightstand.  “What’s that?” she mumbled, and opened her eyes a crack to see him taking off the last of his clothes.

            “Some cooking oil I found, and a little something to make it smell good.  It will let me work more tension out of the muscles.”  He sat down and tugged playfully at her shirt.  “Up for a moment!  Come on.”  Taniva pouted and groaned pitifully as she cooperated with his efforts to get her undressed, and flopped back down onto the bed at the first opportunity.  With an indulgent smile, he poured a bit of oil into his palm, passed his other hand through it, and lowered both hands onto her shoulders.  They stroked down to her breasts and back up again, warm and slick.  She watched his face grow peaceful and contented as he gently rubbed his way down the length of her body.

            Contented.  It wasn’t just libido, just the “itch” as he sometimes defensively called it; he wanted connection, and this was the only way he knew.  She wanted to kiss him, but it would involve movement, and he seemed happy with what he was doing.  She decided to settle for indulging him.

            “Most of the work will be on the other side,” he said at last, tapping at the side of her thigh.  “Turn over.”  With a token moan she rolled and adjusted, after which he straddled her legs and reached up for his bowl of oil.  This time he poured a thin stream of it down her spine, and she could smell whatever sweet, exotic resin he had added to it.

            She took a deep breath of it.  “Is this a recipe you’re going to teach me?”

            “Did you want me to?  It is not a poison.”  His fingers dug down into the knots in her shoulders, and she lost the will to answer.  It surprised her how much tension there was for him to find and release even in her arms and shoulders, when it was her tired legs that had inspired her to agree.  Her back was even worse, almost ridiculous, and she began to wonder if her body was held together entirely by strain.  In some places the pressure of his palms brought popping noises and sudden release that made her whimper into the pillow.

            Another pouring of oil, and his focus moved down to her legs and ass – minus either her mood of indulgence or his effectiveness, she might have been tempted to comment, but of course her ass _was_ the site of a lot of the tension of walking up a mountain.  Actually he had to push down into her flesh with his fists to get the area to relax, and she groaned at the pressure.  But by the time that was done, she was almost ready to fall asleep, and the third dose of oil and Zev’s thumbs sliding down the insides of her thighs seemed trivial in comparison to what had come before.  Her mind drifted pleasantly as his fingers moved more sensuously up and down her legs and then over her ass again, wet with the extra oil he had poured there, and a finger slipped into –

            The first time, she thought it was an accident.  But instead of withdrawing it, Zev pumped the finger slowly back and forth, and leaned in closer against Taniva to run his other hand up her side, his breath starting to sound heavy.

            She was almost too relaxed even to speak clearly.  “What are you up to?” she asked.

            He nibbled gently at her shoulder before he answered.  “I... am wondering if perhaps you will let me try something.”

            Ah, yes, now she suspected that she knew what he wanted.  It was just that she had never had the subject introduced so tenderly before.  “It’s not going to hurt, is it?”

            A slow, languid kiss to the side of her neck, but his finger was still working, and his cock sliding up and down her thigh, damp and slick from all the extra oil there.  “Not the way I will do it, no.”

            She closed her eyes and smiled at him a little.  “Then go ahead.”

            “Bless your heart,” he whispered, pulling her hair off of her ear and neck as his other hand withdrew.  The head of his cock pressed against her, and for a moment went no further than that:  he kept still as he grazed across the back of her shoulders, stroking the sides of her breasts with his hands.  Something inside her seemed to let go, and then without effort he was in her, thrusting as smoothly as in any of their other encounters.  She bit her lip and wished their position did not doom her to staying passive; all she could do was to reach behind her with one hand to touch his hair.

            He sighed happily and kissed her as best he could given the angle, and she hummed in response.  She’d believed his promise not to hurt her, but it was still a relief to realize that it really _didn’t_ hurt, and that in fact she might actually like it.  It would be much easier to indulge him with things she liked herself.

            So she tilted her ass up toward him a little bit in encouragement.  “Yes,” she whispered.

            He grinned and took hold of her hips, driving into her harder.  _“Ti piace, mi –_ no.”  He bit her playfully as if she was the one who had done it.  “Do you like this?”

            She nodded and said, “Bite me harder.”  He did, joyously, and his hands swept up and down her sides with growing urgency as she gasped in time with him.  The realization hit her quite abruptly:  it was not only about lust for her, either.  Or pity and commiseration about their troubled pasts and both being elves.  She was trusting him this far because she _wanted_ to trust him.  Because she cared about him.

            She moaned, and he moaned with her, clutching suddenly into her flesh, shuddering.  As soon as he moved to lie beside her, she pounced on him, kissing him with what she hoped was enough ferocity to keep herself quiet.  He chuckled a little in surprise but kissed back without protest, and put his arm around her when she stopped to nestle against his shoulder.

            The night passed in blissful quiet.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ti piace, mi..."  
> "Do you like it, my..."


	28. Searching the Wrong Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the visit to the Urn, Zevran finally tells his Rinna story. Also, some lovely Plutarch quotes!

            The worst part of the following long, cold day was not walking even further up the mountain, so high that there were small drifts of snow and ice out of season, and the air was unpleasantly thin.  It was not Genitivi’s happy prattling about the sacred site as he insistently limped up toward it, oblivious to the danger he presented to himself and those who would have to protect him.  It was not the fresh supply of cultists that was waiting for them underground, or the broodling dragons they were raising.

            It was not even the full-grown dragon they were calling Andraste.  That was very bad, yes, but there was a sort of perverse amusement in seeing Zev plaster himself against a wall as he regarded it, wide-eyed.  In the look of disbelief he gave her as she drew her weapons.

            “Surely you do not mean to _fight_ it,” he hissed.  “Can’t we just... sneak around it?”

            She grimaced.  “Us and the boys in the heavy armor, sure.  And it’ll be just as easy when we’re coming back down and she’s still here.  Come on, it’ll be fun, right?  Practice for the archdemon!”

            He shook his head and chuckled at her.  “Yes, I suppose it will be that.”

            It was _not_ fun: it was grueling, and nearly fatal several times over.  Taniva had never been gladder to have Wynne nearby, because more than once she was the last one standing, scrambling to revive the others one by one and avoid blasts from the dragon at the same time.  The poor old woman was exhausted by the time the false Andraste was dead, and Morrigan had to come out and heal _her_ before they could go on.  Even so, it was not the worst part of Taniva’s day.

            The worst thing was actually finding the ruined temple, because it was waiting for them.

            She had her daggers ready before the Guardian’s voice echoed strangely around her, promising no violent intentions.  A servant of Andraste, he said, a servant of the Urn, merely testing the hearts of those who meant to enter holy ground.

            _Merely._   With a few words, he had Alistair nearly wishing himself dead again for Ostagar.  And then he turned toward Taniva.  “All the men you killed for Shianni,” he said, “and yet you were still too late to keep them from – ”

            “Don’t say it!” she snapped.  “You have no right to _say_ it!”

            Or to know.  How could he _know?_

            He inclined his head politely.  “Do you blame yourself?”

            “I....”  She felt frozen.  Of course it wasn’t her fault.  It was Vaughan’s fault.  And the other men she’d killed, and Denerim’s whole noble line, and the men Vaughan prowled the Alienage with who hadn’t been there that day, and Cailan’s for not paying attention to how his knife-eared subjects were treated –

            “Yes,” she said, her eyes stinging.  “I should never have let them take her.”

            “Don’t do that,” Alistair muttered, though still only half-emerged from his own trauma.  “You just told me not to do that.  Don’t keep blaming yourself for what you couldn’t do or didn’t know.  Not that I even know what he’s talking about.”

            “But I do,” Zevran hissed over her shoulder, glaring hatefully at the Guardian.  “Keep the blame where it belongs, my dear Warden.  It is not yours.  And _you_ ,” he added, raising his chin at the guardian, “move on.”

            “In that case, Zevran Arainai, I have a question for you as well.”

            “Oh, good.  My turn now.  Wonderful.”  He shifted his weight, and Taniva could feel his tension behind her, and his building anger.

            “You are an Antivan Crow, trained to kill without regret.  But has the training taken?  Is there even one victim that you have mourned?  Perhaps a woman, the one you knew as – ”

            “Yes!” Zev shouted.  “Is that what you want?  Yes!”

            A moment of silence, and then the Guardian stepped aside, head bowed.  “Proceed with Andraste’s blessing.”

            That simple.  And then they lumbered forward with wounds Wynne could not heal, all silent and avoiding each other’s eyes.

 

*

 

            Alistair was the one she spoke to first as they dragged their weary carcasses back down to Haven, the Urn having been found and a little pouch of ashes retrieved.  He was easier precisely because she knew they had seen less deeply into each other.  “Did that... make you happy?  Does it strengthen your faith, or something?”

            “ _Or something?_ ” he snickered.  “I don’t know.  I mean, it does strengthen my faith – it was amazing, actually.  I don’t know if _happy_ is the word I’d use.  I felt pretty wretched when we first went in.”

            “You do know there’s nothing you could have done for him, don’t you?  If you had been on the field.”

            “I know.  I... spoke with him.  It was so strange.”  He glanced sidelong at her.  “You didn’t, I take it.”

            “No.  Did it help you?”

            “I think it did.”

            She nodded and left it at that, because she did not want to destroy the illusion if it had made him happy.  What she had seen had been Shianni, and she knew Shianni was not dead.  ...Well.  She was _almost_ sure:  Shianni had been alive and well when Taniva had left home.  And the vision, whatever it had been, had _not_ been helpful or cheering to her, either.  No, _her_ vision had asked her if she had forgotten about Shianni, the Alienage, and the elves.

            And that was gnawing at her, because in a way, she had.  Even though her blood burned and she was compelled to a life of battle she had not chosen, the _physical_ freedom to move about the country was exciting, and – and she had Zev.  And given the choice, now... the thought of what she might do given the choice made her guilty and miserable.

            Zev volunteered for first watch of the night even though he had been one of those who had done the most during the day, claiming that he was not ready to sleep yet.  Shale agreed to “keep the painted elf company” and to continue through the second watch so more people could sleep, since technically she didn’t need sleep at all.  That settled, Zev skulked over to a patch of grass between houses, threw off his armor, and started scrubbing at it with ruthless determination.

            _Perhaps a woman_ , the guardian had said.  Perhaps aside from being a betrayal of Shianni, choosing Zev would be really, really stupid.  But she was too tired to try to find out right away, so she went off by herself to the bed they had shared the night before.  Her mind made several attempts to escape sleep in favor of painful introspection, but her body finally won.

            In the morning there seemed to be an unspoken agreement that there was no hurry to move on.  Everyone was back to a point where they could make agreeable small talk – at least everyone who had been capable of it before – but still the mood was pensive and private.  Zev she found sitting in the same patch of grass as the night before, watching the sky.

            She doubted the wisdom of asking her real question first, so she picked another one, thinking back to the specters of saints that had met them within the temple.  “I’d never heard that there was an elf among Andraste’s companions.  Had you?”

            He stretched his legs out and let his head fall back.  “No.  But I can easily imagine how back when the Chantry declared war on the elves, they would have edited out that part.  Has this place put you into a religious mood?  Are you perhaps going to run off and become a lay sister?”

            “No.”  Sighing, she sat down next to him.  “No, I’m trying to work up the courage to ask you something else.”  She looked a bit past him rather than at him.  “You seemed so rattled by what the Guardian said.  About that woman.”

            “Ah, yes, I thought so.”  He fell back into the grass and looked up dolefully at her.  “I suppose this is the time.  Her name was Rinna.  My partner Taliesin and I took her under wing after she became a Crow, and the three of us were together for a good while.  I had never trusted anyone more than I did them.”

            Another woman.  The fact that it sounded like she was dead helped surprisingly little.  “Did you love her?”

            His look went thoughtful and probing, and his hand came to find hers before he answered.  “I... thought so at the time.  As close as I had ever come to it, anyway.  She was everything I thought I wanted, dark and beautiful and deadly.  I have a type, it would seem,” he added, chuckling; but when she lacked the heart to laugh with him, he went on.  “And secretive, and perhaps not as fond of Taliesin as she was of me.  That proved to be the problem, you see.  I thought we were all getting along, just because they both got along with me, and they do not turn out to be the same thing.

            “Taliesin accused Rinna of being a traitor, of trying to get us killed.  He... gave me proof.  By the time we confronted her, I was so sure.”  His eyes drifted up toward the clouds, soft and sad.  “Taliesin was the one who killed her, but I did nothing to stop him.  She pleaded with me, and I only laughed at her, because I thought she was trying to manipulate me.  She said she loved me, and I stood there and watched her die.  And then – it wasn’t true.  She had not betrayed us after all.”

            She was miserable for him.  She was miserable for _herself_ , wondering how a living, cranky woman would ever compete with a martyred first love.  “Zev,” she whispered.

            “Taliesin swore he’d thought it was true, but by then I did not know what to believe.  And our Master didn’t care either way.  We were nothing to him.  He would have cared more if he had lost a _dog._   When I truly realized that, I... lost interest in staying alive, for a time.  That was why I took the contract against you, in fact.  My plan was to let you kill me.”  He ran his hand up her back, smiling a little.  “That you would spare me and then be too bewitching to escape never crossed my mind.”

            “Hmm.  Bewitching.” 

            He shook his head at her skepticism, and as he petted her back, started to murmur under his breath.  “ _Era il giorno ch'al sol si scoloraro per la pietà del suo factore i rai, quando ì fui preso, et non me ne guardai, chè i bè vostr'occhi, donna, mi legaro – ”_

            “For love of the Maker,” she scowled, “don’t start chanting at me in foreign tongues.”

            “Tsk.  It is a poem, my dear Warden.  A rather lovely one, had you let me finish it.”

            “Would you have told me what it meant?”

            “Ah,” he said with a teasing look, “it is too late to ask that now, I’m afraid.”

            She swatted his knee in protest.  “Fine, then.  But – you are interested in staying alive now, right?”

            “Yes, I am, as I hope you are.  I learned something from the Guardian too, you know.”  He went back to stroking her.  “You did not tell me Shianni was taken along with you.”

            Taniva balled up a little bit.  “It’s not mine to tell.  I wish he hadn’t said it.”

            “And they had already... had their way with her when you found her.”

            She could feel everything inside her tightening.  “Yes.”

            He was speaking very softly now.  “And even so, Taniva, it is still their fault and not yours.”

            “If I’d been stronger then,” she hissed at him over her shoulder, “if I hadn’t given up fighting for so long, I could have killed him the first time, and none of this would have happened at all.”

            “None of it?  There would have been no Blight if not for you?”

            “...Hmph.”

            “How would I have met you, my Warden?  How would we lie together in the grass?”  With that, he yanked her down by the wrist.

            It seemed foolish to argue the point.  So they just lay there on their backs in the grass, staring up at the clouds.  She would never have imagined such a thing, though of course that was because there _was_ no grass to speak of in the Alienage.  It was strangely relaxing.

            “Maybe someday, when the Blight is over, I’ll run a Chantry dedicated to Saint Shartan,” she mused.  And then she actually thought about it.  “Well, no.  That would be a terrible idea.”

            “You can _pay_ to found it when we’re rich,” Zevran said.  “That will balance out all the sins we’ll be committing to get the money, yes?”

            She laughed.  “Yes.  Much better.”

            “Do you know what _I_ would like to do?”  He rolled onto his side to face toward her.  “Make love to you on Father Eirik’s altar.”

            She smiled up at him tolerantly.  “Of course you would.”

            He raised her hand to his face.  “Do you not think it would make a magnificent gesture?”

            “Actually... yes, I do.”  And she might even have let him make a case for doing it, but for the awkward coughing coming from above them.

            “Tan?” Alistair said.  “Everyone is ready to go.  We should, ah, get moving.”

            “Maybe next time,” she told Zev with a peck on the cheek, then allowed Alistair to pull her to her feet.

            Zevran rolled onto his back again and remained for a moment before getting up, pouting.  “ _Però al mio parer non li fu honore ferir me de saetta in quello stato.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Petrarch’s poem in full:
> 
> Era il giorno ch'al sol si scoloraro  
> per la pietà del suo factore i rai,  
> quando ì fui preso, et non me ne guardai,  
> chè i bè vostr'occhi, donna, mi legaro.  
> Tempo non mi parea da far riparo  
> contra colpi d'Amor: però m'andai  
> secur, senza sospetto; onde i miei guai  
> nel commune dolor s'incominciaro.  
> Trovommi Amor del tutto disarmato  
> et aperta la via per gli occhi al core,  
> che di lagrime son fatti uscio et varco:  
> Però al mio parer non li fu honore  
> ferir me de saetta in quello stato,  
> a voi armata non mostrar pur l'arco. 
> 
> It was the day the sun's ray had turned pale  
> with pity for the suffering of his Maker  
> when I was caught, and I put up no fight,  
> my lady, for your lovely eyes had bound me.  
> It seemed no time to be on guard against  
> Love's blows; therefore, I went my way  
> secure and fearless-so, all my misfortunes  
> began in midst of universal woe.  
> Love found me all disarmed and found the way  
> was clear to reach my heart down through the eyes  
> which have become the halls and doors of tears.  
> It seems to me it did him little honour  
> to wound me with his arrow in my state  
> and to you, armed, not show his bow at all.
> 
> This poem is also the source of our title, Trovommi Amor, "Love Found Me."


	29. Just Being Practical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having grown tender, Zevran has a little jealous freakout. Sucks to be Alistair.

            “May I ask you a question, my Warden?”

            Taniva rose from her crouch beside the stewpot.  “Yes, after we step away from the food.  You know how they get.”

            “Indeed,” he sighed.  Of course he was tired of such partial and conditional trust from their companions, but she thought she saw something else troubling him.  This was not going to be a question about bad poetry or massages.

            They walked to the edge of the clearing in which they had made camp.  As they stopped, Zevran crossed his arms – a defensive posture.  She frowned.

            “So.”  He addressed his question to her feet.  “I have noticed this… thing between you and Alistair.”

            “What?”  She was so dumbstruck that she couldn’t formulate any other response, so after fumbling after one for a moment, she repeated it.  “What?”

            “I prefer it, my dear Warden, when you and I are honest with each other.”

            Her face was hot, and she was staring at him as he stared down at her feet, not facing her.  She could not have been more mystified.  “All right, Zev.  I _honestly_ have no idea what you mean by ‘a thing between me and Alistair.’  What is it that you – ”

            Zevran waved one hand without uncrossing his arms – worse and worse.  “What is important is whether… whether you see that going anywhere.  With him.”

            She shook her head, her mind racing desperately to figure out where he could have gotten such an idea.  She threw herself at Zev at nearly every opportunity, and Alistair she simply treated with the same basic decency she did any –

            Oh, that might actually be it.  Zev was so unused to basic decency, friendship without costs attached, bonds of family, that he might misread her brotherly treatment of Alistair as something else.  Sex was cheap, but _care_ he would see as scarce, and he might not recognize that it came in different amounts and varieties.

            “So you’re jealous?” she asked, not sure she should believe her own theory.

            His eyes snapped upward to meet hers, hurt for a split second and then closed off, hardened against her.  Which was a yes, but what he said was, “Of course not!  I am being _practical._   There is no sense jumping into a situation that is going to be complicated.”

            “Zev – ”

            “I would not make you choose for my own sake, of course.  But I think that it would hurt Alistair if you tried to keep us both.  So if you believe you want something more serious with him, then…”  He paused and took a deep breath.  “I would step out of the way.  We’ve had our fun, but you should pursue your happiness.”

            _You_ are _my happiness_ , she thought, but knowing how labyrinthine his thinking could get, she would have to be even more blunt.  “So you’re asking me to choose between you.  Fine.  I choose you.  Without question.”

            He did less well at hiding the relief than he had at the pain:  everything about him began to visibly relax.  “Do you?”

            “ _Yes_ , Zev.  Andraste’s flaming bosom.”  She wrapped her arms around him and felt the rest of his tension melt into her.

            “I am glad to hear it,” he muttered into her hair.  The embrace began to ease its way from reassuring to sensual, and she was on the verge of suggesting that he needed a massage when he added, “Then it would be cruel to lead him on, don’t you think?”

            She sighed.  “Yes, it would.  I will remember not to do that.”

            “You should tell him.”  He drew back just enough to look her in the eyes with steely determination.  “As soon as possible.”

            This was ridiculous.  But if it was what he needed, then fine.  “I’ll do it now.  Is now good?  And then I will ride you mercilessly for hours to punish you for being troublesome.   Agreed?”

            He grinned.  “I think this is a good plan.”

            “Excellent.  Off I go, then.”  She kissed his cheek, pinched his arm, and strode as purposefully as she could in the vague direction of where she thought Alistair might be.  Yes, good luck – dealing with firewood, his preferred campsite chore. 

            “Alistair?  I need you to put the kindling down and look at me as though we’re having a very serious conversation.”

            “Oooookay.”  He followed her instructions and then looked at her curiously.  “So, what are we pretending to speak seriously about?”

            “Maker’s breath, right.  For all I know he’ll actually ask you later.”  She sighed and pressed against her forehead.  “We’re talking about my relationship with Zev.  I’m assuming you’ve noticed.”

            “You make it hard not to.”  He looked uncomfortable, and he rubbed the back of his neck as he added, “In fact, maybe this would be a good time to mention this.  The rest of us were talking about asking you to observe some quiet hours.”

            She hoped she didn’t feel herself blushing.  “We do sleep.”

            “Anyway, yes.  You and Zev are an _item._   Noted.  Is there a reason we’re discussing it officially?”  He paused.  “Is it that serious?”

            “I think – well, I hope – well, the point is.  He’s gotten it into his head that you and I have some sort of romantic connection.  Or had, or something.  I don’t know.  And I’m to tell you that it’s over, whatever it was.”

            He looked as if she had punched him in the stomach.  “ _He’s_ jealous of _me?_ ”

            She threw up her arms.  “I know.  He’s being ridiculous.  I don’t know where it’s coming from, but I have to deal with it anyway.  So I’m breaking up with you, and you’re just going to play along with that, all right?”

            For a moment all he did was stare.  “Maker’s breath,” he whispered.  “So you don’t even – I mean – right.”  He grimaced.  “Also noted.  You don’t want me.  Any more.  I’m sure I’ll… um.  Yes.  Good luck with it.”

            Great, now he was uncomfortable too.  “It’s not _too_ awkward, is it?  I mean, it’s not supposed to be an insult or anything.”

            “No, no.  Of course not.  I’ll tell him you, ah, ended it with me.  And that he’s a lucky bastard.”

            “Thank you.  You’re like – you’re my family out here, you know.  I never thought I’d trust a human so much.”  She smiled.  “It means a lot.  You’re great to put up with our foolishness.”

            She turned and walked back toward her cooking, relieved and ready to announce her progress to Zevran; she could hear Alistair regathering his sticks and muttering under his breath as she went.

            “Yes,” he said.  “I am _excellent._ ”


	30. The Seat of Authority

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What makes Taniva feel good? Picking locks, stealing things, and Zevran. What makes her feel bad? Wynne.

            The ashes did what it was hoped they would do, and the arl woke from his poison-induced slumber, to the great pleasure of his wife.  She had already sent their son away to the mages, and thus had been alone while they’d been gone – assuming, of course, that she had not availed herself of Bann Teagan’s company, as any reasonable lady would have done.

            Eamon wanted to speak with just the Wardens, which meant that the rest of them were left to entertain themselves.  They were all most welcome, they were told, all cherished guests, which meant that they were abandoned to boredom in pretty surroundings.  Naturally, Zevran was the first to tire of it:  even Morrigan, though restless, was able to distract herself by gaping at the expensive mirrors and decorative pieces around them.

            “What does it find so fascinating about mirrors?” Shale sighed.  “They reflect what is in front of them.  So does a lake.  Did it spend its time in the Wilds mooning about over lakes?”

            “’Tis not the same thing at all,” Morrigan insisted, crossing her arms.

            Leliana giggled.  “You must not underestimate the importance of _mirrors_ , Shale.  They are an important tool for a woman.  And these are very nicely made, I think.  Plating the frame with gold makes it so shiny, doesn’t it?”

            “It does,” Morrigan admitted, stroking the frame before her with one fingertip.

            Fine things were all well and good, Zev thought, but since these were too expensive to buy, too large to steal, and he would have nowhere to keep them if he had them, they lost their appeal after a while.  He left his companions and started wandering the halls in search of something to do.

            So many locked doors.  He remembered telling his Warden while tied up at her feet that he could pick locks for her.  The thought provoked both a chuckle and an unexpected twinge of guilt.  He’d already been getting rusty then, and now that he was accustomed to letting her do it because she was so much better at that, he must be even worse.  Maker forbid he should actually need to get through a locked door without her there.

            Perhaps some practice would pass the time.

           

            He chose the door he thought he remembered leading to an office – he had no ambition to actually take anything, but rifling through a desk would be more interesting than looking at a child’s playthings.  His picks felt almost alien in his hands, further proof of how lazy he had been about keeping up this skill.  Unpleasant questions arose about just how reliant he was allowing himself to become on others, and what other abilities he might find atrophied when he needed them.

            _Click._

            That was a relief, and an excuse to drop that line of thought.  The room was indeed an office, nicely appointed as one would expect for a noble of high importance.  He rifled idly through shelves and inspected decorative items, wondering if he had enough of a thief’s instincts in him to actually take something.  Not that he was opposed on principle, of course, but he was much less in need at the moment than he’d grown up accustomed to.  Anyway, even here, many things were too big to simply tuck into a boot and carry off – and then if one did, where would one put them without a permanent residence?  To whom would one sell them?  Those dwarves, perhaps.

            Still, easier to find something small.  He sat down in Eamon’s ornate chair, intending to go through the drawers, but they too were locked.  Starting to lose interest and to feel a bit lazy, he leaned back and pondered the view from his seat.  He was still doing so when his Warden appeared in the doorway.

            “Somehow I thought this was where you’d wander off to,” she smirked.  She tucked her unruly hair behind her ear – and just like that, he was cheerful again.

            “I wanted to see what it would feel like to be the arl!” he grinned up at her.  “I’m glad you’re here – so far it has not been very exciting.  What did Eamon keep you talking about for so long?”

            “You’ll laugh if I tell you.”

            “Come sit in my lap and tell me.  You can be my arlessa!  Or perhaps my insolent maid.  Your choice.”

            She snickered but came obligingly and sat with him, wrapping one arm around the back of his neck as he slipped both of his around her waist.  “He wants Alistair to be the King,” she said.

            So of course he did laugh.  “Alistair?  But I thought they knew each other!”

            “I know, that’s what I thought.  But he really seems taken with the idea.  He’s insisting that we come back and plan it all out after we’re done gathering allies against the archdemon.”

            “Riding our coattails, then!  I do enjoy politics, as a spectator.  In the Crows we used to make bets on such things.  We were privy to a lot of inside information, as you can imagine.”  He slid one hand down her leg, feeling for the edge of the leather skirt of her armor.  “So what did Alistair think of the idea?”

            “He didn’t approve.  But he couldn’t disapprove _strongly_ , of course.  He’s awful at that, which is just exactly why he shouldn’t be King.  So he ended up just sulking, and I’m sure Eamon thinks he’s going to go along.”

            He wasn’t quite listening any more.  Having found the bare flesh of her leg, his fingertips were stroking back up along the inside of her thigh, and that was where most of his attention was.  “Mmm.  You know, perhaps you should open the locked drawer on this desk, just in case there is something interesting in it.”  His right hand moved up into her hair.

            She squirmed against him just a little, her breaths growing deeper as she relaxed into his ministrations.  While she made quick work of the lock and opened the drawer with only her right hand, his left hand was moving inexorably up between her thighs, reveling in the softness of the skin there and causing him to wish, again, that she didn’t insist on wearing smallclothes beneath her armor.

            She leaned forward, away from his nuzzling toward the base of her neck, as she pulled something out of the desk that had interested her.  What she held up before them did not strike him as that fascinating:  it was just some sort of clay amulet hanging from a strap, and one that had been broken and glued back together at that.  _She,_ however, seemed quite taken with it.

            “This is a find!” she said.  “I know who needs to have this.”

            “Is it for me?”

            With a sneer, she dropped it down into her cleavage.  “No.”

            “But why would you put it _there_ if it was not for me?” he grinned, dropping his right arm to pull her closer.  “How far down did it go?  Do you think I can reach it with my tongue?”  He kissed his way down the bared part of her chest, and as the tip of his tongue danced across her skin she threw her head back and laughed.  Really _laughed_ , and dug her fingers into his hair.  As much as he appreciated her as a deadly rogue, the glimpses he was starting to catch of her unguarded, as a wild, joyful girl, were intoxicating.  He pressed more urgently up into the cleft between her thighs, hoping to make her squeal.

            Just as she was starting to make the sound he wanted, the door swung open again, and he felt her tense and swing toward the noise, thrusting his hand away.  He looked over more idly and saw Wynne, chagrined and making an awkward face.

            And then he felt his Warden change in his arms, slumping heavily back into the tired, guarded, serious woman she was to the others.  For a moment he hated Wynne.

            After a false cough, the old mage said, “Yes, well.  Taniva, Alistair wanted to find out where you’d gone.  He’s eager for us to move out of Redcliffe, and everyone else is getting ready.”

            Taniva sighed as she disentangled herself from his embrace.  “We’re coming.”  She rose and left the room without looking back or making eye contact with Wynne.

            Zevran _did_ make eye contact with her, and it was not pleasant.

 

**  
**


	31. The Evils of Righteousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know that speech Wynne gives about how it's selfish for Wardens to fall in love? That's going to end well.

            It was not actually unusual for his Warden to come away from conversations with Wynne looking a little bit irritable.  The old woman had a habit of giving out unsolicited advice and judgments, for which reason Zevran already tended to single her out especially for teasing.  There was a certain satisfaction to watching her get more and more flustered by references to her bosom.

            What was unusual was for Taniva to leave Wynne in long, quick strides, go to where Alistair had set up a rudimentary practice target, and start pummeling it as if she were holding clubs rather than daggers.

            He made his way in her direction casually, watching as she gained focus, shifting from merely violent strikes to efficient ones, killing her imaginary opponent with more and more grace.  He recognized moves he had taught her himself, and smiled.

            Only when she paused for a moment to catch her breath did he speak.  “Wynne said something particularly helpful, I take it?”

            She glanced over her shoulder at him.  “She wants me to stop having sex with you.”  With that, she went immediately back to her practice.  Upward diagonals, now.

            He raised his eyebrows.  “That is none of her business.”

            “Of course it’s none of her business,” she growled.

            “Then – as flattering as it is – I am not sure why it makes you this angry.”

            “I am beyond _angry!_ ”  She wheeled around and glared at him.  “I ache all over constantly.  I have nightmares about darkspawn and dragons.  I am assured that I will not live past middle age and that I am unlikely to bear children easily.  All of this was forced on me by deceit, by a man I dare not speak a word against because the _shem_ who is my only hope of understanding what I have to do regards him as a martyred saint and father figure.

            “And I take it.  I go on throwing myself into the jaws of death over and over again, for people who _hate_ me, and I _smile_ when they tell me how surprising it is that I am so much like a real person.  I have one good thing in my life, Zev, one thing that I chose myself.  _One._   One single place where I can remember who I am and that something in life is worth going on for.”

            Her face was glimmering in the moonlight, and he realized that she had started crying.  “And I have to listen to that woman tell me that I am _selfish_ to want it.  That I am supposed to be able to just turn around and give that up and have _nothing_ , and I am no real Gray Warden if I don’t.”

            He just stood there, astonished.  _You cannot be crying over me.  I cannot be that important._

            “When did I _ask_ to be a Gray Warden, Zev?” she shrieked.  “When did I ask for any of this?”

            “Ssh.”  There was nothing he could say in response that would help her.  Instead, he held out his arms, and she flung herself into them, clutching him to her for dear life.  He stroked her hair, trying to soothe her, but he found himself becoming angry.  It was so easy for people who had never really gone without to talk about sacrifices.  So easy when they were not the ones who had to give.  He was the only one here who understood what it was like to have nothing to hold on to but a warm embrace and mismatched socks.

            What kind of person would ask someone so overburdened to give up the one thing that gave her pleasure?  What kind of person would _dare_ to do this to her in the name of some useless ideal?

            “ _Stronza critica e ficcanaso,_ ” he hissed.

            She had stopped sobbing.  On recognizing that he was speaking Antivan, she thumped him on the back with her fist.  She hated not knowing what he was saying.

            It hadn’t been intentional:  he was just that annoyed.  “Sorry.  I was just calling Wynne a judgmental, meddling bitch.”

            She giggled, a half-hysterical sound so soon after crying.  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like that before.”

            “What do you want me to do?  _Selfish._   _Che due balle.  Fatti i cazzi tuoi!  Che cazzo vuoi da lei –_ ah.  I am doing it again.  Sorry.  I am talking to myself, I’m afraid.”  He grinned, glad she could not see how bloodthirsty his expression was.  “Or more properly, to Wynne.  Except I am saying things you would probably prefer I not say to her directly.”

            She dug her fingertips into his shoulders.  “This is not the day for me to be your conscience, Zev.”

            “Don’t be.  Don’t be anything.”  He kissed her forehead.  “Relax.  Sit by the fire until you feel like yourself.”  Her cheekbone, her jaw.  “Later I will make you feel whatever you like.”

            She nestled against his throat; he could feel that she was starting to breathe steadily again.  “You’re not coming?”

            “I will follow in a moment, my dear Warden.  I am going to check your work first.”

            She chuckled as she pulled away from him.  “I think it’s dead,” she said over her shoulder, and headed toward the fire.

            It was true, it was unlike him to be this angry about anything.  Still, he could not allow such an affront to go unanswered.  Wynne was going to answer to him for this, as soon as he could express himself in her language and without swearing.  But that would involve adding several more injuries to Alistair’s battered target first.

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cussing in Antivan!
> 
> "Stronza critica e ficcanaso" = "critical, nosy bitch"  
> "Che due balle. Fatti i cazzi tuoi! Che cazzo vuoi da lei?" = "What balls. Mind your own dick!* What do you want from her?"  
> *actual Italian cussing


	32. A New Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran goes to have his actual discussion with Wynne. Minus the Antivan cussing.

            Wynne took the opportunity to sit down in front of her tent and rub ointment into her tired joints.  Sharing her body with a protective spirit had not made it younger or more spry, which was a bit of a shame, given how much work lay ahead of her.

            She saw Zevran coming toward her area, and quickly tucked the ointment under a blanket with a sigh.  Otherwise, there would doubtless be some wearying innuendo about where she needed it applied, whether she needed help – her bosom would inevitably be referenced somehow or other –

            No.  He was moving with much too purposeful a gait to be thinking of jokes, and in fact the look in his eyes made her glad she had her staff near at hand.  She stood to face him.

            “Leave her alone,” he hissed.

            “Who, Zevran?  What are you talking about?”

            “I swear,” he went on, perhaps not entirely aware she’d asked a question, “you would give advice to your Maker and think He ought to follow it.  On things you know _nothing_ about.”

            “Ah.  Is this about a talk I had with Taniva?”  She should have known it would come to this eventually.  Of course he would not be pleased to have Wynne interfering in his game.  Of course, not having wanted the warning, Taniva would have told him of having received it.

            The cracks in his usual composure were surprising; he waved his arms angrily to make up for not raising his voice.  “You could have been satisfied with focusing on me.  That is easy enough.  ‘Do not put so much faith in Zevran.  He is a Crow; he is an Antivan; he is too promiscuous.’  But instead you attacked her honor.  You told her she was _selfish_.”

            She frowned.  That was not quite the message she had wanted to leave Taniva with, and not at all the way she would have expected Zevran to react to it.  “What I meant was – ”

            “Do you really think it matters what you _meant?_ ”  He took a deep breath to calm himself, clearly more distressed than Wynne could remember seeing him.  “All your life you have been comfortable and respected.  You have no idea what it is like to be one of us.  You have no right to try to dictate what we _need._ ”

            As her mouth opened to protest, for one moment she stopped seeing Zevran at all, and saw instead another elf from long ago, another angry young man with a painful history, whom she had demanded trust and sacrifice from much too soon.  Whom she had offered only stern judgment when he had needed consolation and support, and –

            And by the Maker, she was in danger of doing it again, twice over.  And how much higher would the stakes be this time?

            When she saw Zevran again, she _saw_ him, not the sum of his irritating mannerisms but a wounded creature, and moreover, one who was taking this perceived insult to Taniva much, much more seriously than she would have predicted.

            “I may have overstepped my bounds with her,” she admitted in a quiet voice.  “I am only a companion here.  I do not claim any authority over her, or you.”

            That calmed him enough to make him stand still, but the hurt in his eyes only became more obvious.  “You made her cry,” he muttered.

            The hardness was a mask.  How had she not noticed that?  And Taniva had gotten under it, and he under hers.  It would not have been wise at all to pry them apart at this point.  It would have been _cruel._

            “I… did not mean to do that.  I will apologize.”

            He responded with a loud sigh and a curt nod.  “Very well.  Then I hope we will not need to speak of this again.”

            “We will not.  I’m sorry, Zevran.  I meant no hurt to either of you.  In fact… I am coming to think better of you than you may suspect.”

            That made him look confused.  Then the mask came back up, though not quite as rigid as before, and he smirked.  “Best keep it a secret.  I do not want to lose the allure of being disapproved of by her elders, as long as it stays in its place.”

            She laughed a little.  “Of course.”  She watched him walk away, in a more relaxed pace than the one that had brought him, straight back toward Taniva, where she sat off by herself.  Wynne watched from a distance as they sat together, leaned in toward each other as they gazed into the fire.

            Healing came in such an infinity of forms.

**  
**


	33. Mementos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We discover that city elves make quilts. So, therefore, does Taniva. Dark, gruesome quilts. It's adorable.

            This again.  He watched from among the trees near the camp as Taniva fetched some handful of scraps from her pack, sat down by the light of the fire, and began to work.  At first he’d assumed she was repairing things torn in battle or travel, as would be logical enough – and sometimes she was, but sometimes it did not seem to have anything to do with that.  Just little scraps that he never seemed to see again, and usually she would tuck them away somewhere as soon as she noticed him coming.

            So this time, he did not allow her to notice.  He crouched, slipped into the deep shadows between trees and then between tents, crept toward the fire behind her.  She was less aware, less defensive, than she tended to be during the day:  she was at rest, doing this personal bit of whatever-it-was, and she trusted her comrades to warn her of any threat from outside.  On one hand, perhaps something he should talk to her about, since he himself was less comfortable assuming that every outside threat could be seen before it reached her.  On the other hand, her being relaxed made it not only easier but _safer_ to take her by surprise.

            Over her shoulder, he could see that she was sewing together little triangles of mismatched fabric, making of them handkerchief-sized squares of mismatched fabric.  “What do you intend to do with so many kerchiefs, my dear Warden?  I have not seen you cry nearly this much.”

            Taniva startled a little as she turned her head, but smiled and eased quickly.  Zevran sat down beside her as she answered.  “Zev.  They don’t make quilts in Antiva?”

            “Not that I noticed.  Then again, if it is among the finer points of the quiet domestic life, I could easily have missed it.”

            She nodded, which as usual caused strands of dark hair to fall into her face.  “The quiet domestic life among poor Alienage elves, anyway.  It’s the art of making pretty blankets out of leftover scraps.”  She held up the square she was stitching together, two pairs of triangles half-stitched together into four.  “This isn’t very fancy, of course.  Shianni learned to do much prettier ones.  She was always more talented with that sort of thing than I was.”

            Zevran shrugged comfortably.  “I imagine you are much better than she is with knives.”

            “Yes.  Not really a point of pride at the time, but it’s very useful out here.”  She smirked.  “Anyway, we’re going to end up in the mountains sooner or later, when we go after the dwarves, and winter’s coming too.  I’ll need warmer blankets.  No,” she added, laughing, “don’t dare say it.  They’ll make a blanket when they’re all sewn together with a backing and some stuffing in between.”

            He leaned against her.  “It would seem to be a lot of sewing.  It must take a long time.”

            “Normally several women pitch in together to make one.  As it is, I’ve only got Wynne helping.  Well.  Did have, until the, ah, _disagreement._ ”

            He looked pointedly into her eyes, measuring how much hurt was left over Wynne’s attempt to interfere with them.  Taniva shook her head.  “She hasn’t brought it up again,” she said.  “We’re cordial enough.  We just haven’t worked on it together lately.”

            “I see.”  He placed his chin lightly on her shoulder, and for a while they sat that way, and he watched her quiet needlework, soaking in the warmth of the fire and of her cheek close to his.  Once the square was finished, she took up two new triangles, one thick and blue and the other a thinner red fabric, slightly faded, and began to sew them together.  He lifted his head just enough to speak properly.  “Where does all of this fabric come from?”

            She sighed.  “You’ll think it’s – well, no, maybe you won’t.  Sometimes I forget you’re different about things like that.”  She held up the previously finished square for his scrutiny, pointing out the triangles one by one.  “That one is from the Reverend Father’s robe at Haven.  That one is from a Redcliffe guard uniform.  This one – ooh! – I think _this_ is the last of the ones I took from Vaughan’s pants – ”

            He could feel himself grinning from ear to ear.  “Keepsakes.”

            She nodded.  “If I think I have enough time when I’m searching the bodies, I take a swatch from their clothes, assuming there’s a piece big enough that isn’t bloody.  Not from darkspawn, of course.  That would just be disgusting.”  She looked sidelong at him, their faces still too close to actually let her turn.  “So that’s not too, ah, strange?”

            He drew back a little bit, and she looked pensive until she saw that he was removing his belt and pulling it forward to show her.  He held it between them and the fire, encouraging her to run her finger across it and feel the unevenness of the texture, observe the subtle differences in color brought out by the firelight.  “This was made of bits of weapons that broke off in me, bits of weapons of mine that broke, and a few trinkets I took from bodies on special occasions.  And one Orlesian coin, if I remember correctly.  Near the buckle, I think.”

            She studied the belt for another moment before letting out a quiet, throaty laugh of the kind he especially enjoyed.  “Well, then.  We can be macabre together.”

            He kissed her on the cheek.  “Of course.  Do you perhaps have another needle?”

            “Oh, that’s not what I – can you sew?”

            “Enough for this, yes.  A Crow who could not repair his own clothes would find himself dressed very shabbily most of the time.”

            With a slightly off-center smile, she collected two triangles, a needle, and some thread for him.  With both of them working he could not leave his head propped on her shoulder; instead he turned at an angle to the fire, crossed his legs, and tugged her down to rest her head in his lap.

            It was not long before Wynne approached them.  Taniva started, as though thinking of getting up for the sake of appearances, but Zevran pressed down on her shoulder, watching the old woman for signs of needing a reminder of their bargain.

            She did not need one.  “Zevran!” she said pleasantly.  “Taniva has recruited you to help us with the quilting, I see.  Good, we can go faster with more pairs of hands at work.”  She sat down and pulled out her own supplies for the craft, and both Zevran and Taniva relaxed.  “How many squares do we have done now?” she asked.

            Taniva rolled her eyes up for a moment, tallying in her head.  “More than enough to go with a single-sized sheet, I think.  We should get batting when we reach Denerim.”

            “A single sheet?” Zevran echoed in a soft voice.  “It might be a good idea to make a double, might it not?”

            She looked up at him.  “Do I need a double?”

            He set down his work for a moment and stroked her cheek.  “I am in your tent more than I am in my own, my Warden.  It might be wise to take this into account.”

            She smiled and raised her own hand to his face in turn.  “If you say so, Zev.  A double it is.”

            There they remained for several seconds, gazing into each other’s eyes, agreed, connected.  Wynne sighed and clucked her tongue, but the tone in her voice when she spoke was not unpleasant.  “We should get back to work on the squares, then.”

**  
**


	34. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party returns to Denerim, and Taniva and Zevran decide to blow off steam with some petty crime. It's all fun and games until they run into the Crows.

            As before, Denerim welcomed her back with perfect apathy.  She was beginning to wonder whether she was relieved or insulted.  For people a usurper king was supposed to want dead, she and Alistair seemed to have free run of Ferelden.  So, what?  Was a little elf girl not worth a second effort?

            Last time they’d come, she had been too distracted to go to the Alienage.  This time, though, she had thought about it – and decided not to go.  It was hard to imagine her and her family being anything to each other at the moment except for uncomfortable reminders of things that couldn’t be changed.  And if somehow it hadn’t dawned on Loghain that the thorn in his side was an Alienage brat whose relatives he could punish as proxy, Maker forbid she should be the one to remind him.

            On the other hand, if he were to figure out that he could punish Goldanna in the place of Alistair... no, that was not a charitable thought, and anyway Alistair would not find it amusing.

            They refreshed their supplies in preparation for a second attempt with the Dalish: the one good thing about Denerim, after all, was that everything was available there if one had either money or very quick hands.  Then they looked in on Brother Genitivi, who was in high spirits, compiling his notes about the Urn of Sacred Ashes and making noise about putting together a more formal expedition.  Taniva pondered the spectacle of dozens, eventually hundreds, of pilgrims all descending upon the Guardian for an unending series of disheartening, soul-probing talks.  She found herself sorry for neither the Guardian nor the pilgrims.

            As far as she was concerned, their business in Denerim was finished; but as they were passing through an alley, a familiar _shem_ lifted his considerable chin at her in subtle greeting, and it caught her interest.  Slim didn’t live up to his nickname – he was actually a bit thick through the middle even by human standards – but he was a reliable fence, and nearly elven in his disdain for _shem_ nobles.  He was trustworthy enough to work with when she had somebody along to watch her back.

            “Alistair,” she said, “I’ll meet you back at the inn shortly.  Zev, come with me.”

            “What’s going on?” the Templar asked.  He never liked being left out.

            “Nothing you want a part of, I promise.”  Of course he wouldn’t be satisfied with that, so she sighed and gave a fuller answer.  “Because you _didn’t_ used to be a thief, and I don’t think you want to learn, right?”

            Alistair sighed back.  “Right.  Just don’t do anything that’s going to draw too much attention to us, all right?”

            “That’s not typically what thieves are trying for.”

            “Then we’re agreed.  Don’t be long.”

            When he was a safe distance gone, Taniva took Zevran to the wall Slim was leaning against.  The _shem_ grinned at them.  “So you _are_ the one they been talking about!  It sounds like you finally got some ambition.  And friends, even,” he added, glancing over at Zev.

            “You’re the one who always told me I swore like an Antivan.  I decided I should find out.”

            “She doesn’t,” Zev smiled.  “We hardly use any of the same words.”

            “My mistake, then,” Slim chuckled.  “But anyway, what I wanted to say was, if you’re back to add some insult to injury, I’d be happy to set up some jobs for you.”

            “You know I’m always up for a good insult.  You remember that I prefer the indoor kind, right?”

            “Course I do.  I’ve got something right now, if you like.  Lady Sophie is staying in the Gnawed Noble, and I’ve got reason to think her guard doesn’t pay much attention when the lady goes out.”

            Taniva pulled out a coin and pressed it into Slim’s hand.  “Thanks.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

            Zev’s gait was light and merry as they headed back toward the tavern.  “Are we going to rob her, then?  It sounds so frivolous!  Do you think she will have anything pretty you could wear?  Of course it would probably be too big.  In that case maybe _I_ could wear it, if you fancy that sort of thing.”

            She giggled at his enthusiasm.  “If I’d known it would put you in such a good mood, we could have been doing this all across Ferelden.”

            “Ah, you spoil me!  But mostly we are out in the middle of nowhere.  What would we take?”

            Their conversation was interrupted by a city guard, which for a moment set Taniva’s heart racing; but he turned out to be asking them for _help._   Two armed knife-ears, and he wanted them to _help_ him, because all the political unrest and refugees from the coming Blight were pushing his hired men past what they could handle.  Tan and Zev kept glancing at each other and trying not to laugh as the man described all the trouble roving bands of mercenaries were causing throughout Denerim.

            When she told the guard she would look into it, Zev actually had to raise a hand to his mouth.  There it stayed until they and the man had parted company, and when it came down, he was still laughing.

            “What?” Taniva protested.  “Think how happy it will make Alistair.  And Lel and Wynne.  Good deeds!”

            “And do we begin making citizen arrests before or after our robbery?”

            “I hardly think we’re going to want Alistair along for the robbery.  We’ll do that first.”

            Zev shook his head, but he was grinning from ear to ear.  “As you wish, then.  You are really a fascinating woman.”

            With so many new people coming and going, it was not that difficult to slip into the Gnawed Noble without attracting interest, even though they were elves.  And as promised, the woman standing guard outside Lady Sophie’s room was singularly inattentive, so getting past her into the room was easy.  In fact it was a bit of a letdown, even after Zev found the slinky nightgown and offered it to her. 

            “I guess I should have known,” she whispered.  “I guess it can’t be as exciting after you’ve killed enough hurlocks.”  She thought for a moment, then looked up at Zev with a playful smile.  “Since we’re here, let’s see if there’s anything good in the other rooms.”

            It proved to be an unfortunate decision:  in the next room they tried, a bald man stood facing the door as if he had been waiting for them to arrive.  “Ah, good,” he said in an unpleasantly familiar accent.  “I take it my messenger found you?”

            “Messenger?” she echoed, but things were already in motion.  Zevran leapt in front of her, daggers drawn, only to freeze when the bald man’s guards emerged from hiding behind them, their own weapons also ready.

            Their leader, meanwhile, remained perfectly relaxed and cheerful.  “No?  You stumbled into me on some other errand?  How amusing.  Now that you are here, however, why not stay and listen to my offer?”

            “Which of us are you after?” Zevran asked, sounding as if his throat was dry.

            “As a target, you mean?  Neither.  As far as I know, there is no new contract on the Wardens, and if there is one on you it is not mine.  As such, I have no reason to harm either of you, and unless things go very badly or I am offered a lot of money, I am not even inclined to speak of seeing you.”

            She was calculating her odds of getting her weapons drawn and fighting her way out without getting either herself or Zevran stabbed in the back before the door was open.  “Zev?”

            He lowered his daggers a fraction, but did not quite relax.  “Technically what he says is true,” he told her.  “Poaching is usually considered bad form.  One has to be very ambitious to make it worth the risk.  Are you very ambitious, Master Ignacio?”

            The bald man laughed.  “It is very polite of you to ask, Zevran, but we are in Ferelden.  I am not here because I have a future in Antiva.  As you know.”

            Zev nodded.  “My old Master liked to use you as a cautionary tale.  I am surprised to see you doing so well, to be honest.  Was I only flattering myself when I feared you would think my death or hers would be enough to compensate?”

            “Perhaps a little.  In any case, the reason I wanted to talk to your lovely friend is that I thought we might be of more use to each other alive.  Why be enemies when we can be friends, hmm?  Here you both are with skills of the trade, and here I am with contracts that need to be filled.”

            Zev grimaced.  “That would still be poaching, unless my Master has given me up for dead.”

            Master Ignacio answered with a shrug.  “You knew that must be coming, hmm?  Clearly you have no intention of returning to him.”  He gestured toward Taniva.

            It was as good a way as any back into the conversation.  “Would it be any protection for Zevran if I were to agree to this?  Would it stop them from coming after him?”

            Zevran spun toward her with horror in his eyes.  He’d told her all along that there was no way out of the Crows.  He’d even joked about it when he still thought she was going to kill him:  _The retirement package is garbage._

            “If his Master has put out a contract for him,” Ignacio answered, “I do not have the authority to revoke it.”

            She braced herself again for the fight that had not yet come.  “And what happens if I decline your offer?”

            “Then we part ways.  I have no reason to fight you, Grey Warden.  I will not mention seeing you or your new pet if you do not mention me.  For the courtesy, my man Cesar will still provide for any special needs you have when in Denerim.”

            For a long moment they all stood there, tense and motionless, wondering how far to trust each other.  At last, Ignacio raised a hand, and his guards lowered their weapons.

            Taniva did not allow herself a sigh of relief.  “In that case, Master Ignacio, I have many other matters I’m attending to, and don’t have time to take on more.  We haven’t met.”

            Ignacio nodded to her.  “It was a pleasure not to make your acquaintance.  Zevran – there is indeed a rumor that a price has been put on your head, but you did not learn of it from me.”

            They backed carefully out of the room, then hurried out of the tavern, not stopping to speak until they were well away.  In a fairly distant alley Zevran threw his arms around her and backed her into a wall, sighing.

            “I’m so sorry,” she said.  “It’s my fault.”

            “Ssh, ssh.”  He started petting her hair, as much to calm himself down as her, she thought.  “Tell me you would not really have worked for him.”

            “Are you in more danger now?”  The next question made her want to cry, but she did her best not to.  “Are you in more danger with us?  Do you have to – ”

            “No.  Absolutely not.”

            It took several minutes of holding each other to make the assurances feel true.  And then even that, apparently, was not quite enough to put Zev at ease.  He whispered his new thought into her hair.  “If it is true that there is no new contract on you, my Warden, I doubt that there will be.  Perhaps I am actually more trouble to you now than I am worth.”

            Hearing him say such a thing made her sick, and she held him tighter.  “I wouldn’t say so, no.”

            His right hand moved slowly up her spine.  “Even so,” he said, and then hesitated.  “If you were safe from the Crows, then my oath would be fulfilled.  Would you... let me go, if that were true?”

            Damn him.  _Damn_ him.  It wasn’t as if she could keep him captive.  “If you wanted to go, you could.  I have always said that.”  _But please don’t.  Please._

            His hand was in her hair.  The next question seemed to have to force its way past his throat.  “And what if I did not wish to go?”

            _Then the chapel we owe to Shartan is going to be a big one._   “Then I hope that you would stay.”

            She felt a wave of tension leave his body, and she relaxed too, because it meant he wasn’t going to abandon her for her own good – even if with the agreement made, he would feel compelled to play the whole question off as theoretical.

            “Good to know,” he sighed against her throat.

**  
**


	35. When I Fall in Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran, Taniva, and Isabela. Yep. (sex chapter)

The Pearl smelled like wine, ale, smoke, and sex, and Zevran breathed it in like perfume.  He could already feel Alistair getting tense behind him, judging the elf for relaxing instead, but the former Templar did not understand.  In this foreign country, there was nothing more safe and familiar than a whorehouse.  There was nothing closer to a homecoming for him, even if these were different whores, even if here he would only be a humored client and never a protected pet.

His Warden did have more of a sense of how it felt, since he had told her about his childhood.  She brushed his hand with one finger to get his attention, and smiled when he turned his head.  “Like the ones in Antiva City?” she asked.

“Very like the ones that were in my price range, yes.  The middle whores, as it were.  Too good for the streets but not good enough for the courts.”  He grinned.  “I hope we are not done with our business here too quickly.  May we stay for a drink afterwards?”

Alistair grimaced.  “A drink of _what?_ ”

Zevran laughed.  “They will not try to drug and molest you, Alistair.  Who would pay them if you were unconscious?”

Leliana was more reassuring, placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder.  “It’s just like a tavern, with an additional service.  And it’s true, no one here is going to do anything to you, unless you pay them first.”  She glanced away.  “Not that I would know.”

No, of course not.  Zevran was on to her.  But it wasn’t his place to make an issue of it in front of the others, especially since she was one of the friendlier ones.

The mercenaries they had been sent to rein in capitulated easily – perhaps too easily, in fact – and fled, and the grateful madam of the establishment gave them a round of ale and first pick of her staff:  everyone agreed to the former but held off on the latter, even Zevran, who felt an alien prick of concern about Taniva’s reaction if he took the offer.

And an even more alien sense that he would prefer not to go off playing without her, anyway.  The idea of a tryst she wasn’t in at all seemed less appealing than it should.  He was lost in his own head, pursuing this mystery, when he noticed that his Warden was watching some argument at another table with growing fascination.  His gaze followed hers to – Maker’s breath, to Isabella, putting two ruffians in their place, as she so enjoyed doing.

It had been a while.  If she was liable to carry a grudge, perhaps they should leave quietly.

But no indeed:  Taniva was quite taken with her, and rose to walk _toward_ that end of the room.  Zevran nodded to the others that he would handle it, and followed.  Isabella was happier as a widow, fortunately; and she also seemed flattered by the Warden’s keen interest in her dueling skills.  She seemed to add the flattery to Zevran’s presence in her head and get something other than he thought Taniva intended, because with a sly glance in his direction, Isabella escalated to flirting.

Contrary to everything he thought he understood about Taniva and _shems_ , she responded in kind.  Zevran watched in amazement as she implied a willingness to trade her favors for training in Isabella’s fighting style, and then, on Isabella’s suggestion, invited him to join them.

Zevran didn’t ask how she had gotten this idea into her head; usually it was unwise to question such a happy surprise.  And since he was invited along, he could pass a pleasant evening and make sure nothing happened to his Warden in Isabella’s company as well.  After all, if their companions were still deciding how much to trust Zevran at this point, they certainly shouldn’t want their leader going off alone with Isabella.

For that reason, he counseled against “going below deck,” as they had been joking, in favor of simply renting a room in the Pearl like anyone else – to save time and be comfortable, he said, although his main concern was staying on neutral territory.  He sent them to make the arrangement with the madam while he whispered the new plan to his fellow rogue.  Leliana promised to keep the man-child entertained in the marketplace for a few hours, and promptly dragged him away chattering merrily about ribbons and shoes, Alistair casting perplexed looks back over his shoulder.

Hmph.  A good thing Zevran _was_ trustworthy.  Well, and that Taniva was so gloriously lethal herself.

As Zevran closed the door to their room, Isabella was already humming contentedly as she removed garments.  She had always been very much to the point in that way.

“Zev!” Taniva whispered into his ear.  “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“So you have not done this before?” he whispered back.

A nervous giggle.  “Not done what?  A woman?  A pirate?  A total stranger?  A threesome?”

What _was_ she thinking in starting this?  It seemed so intriguingly unlike her.  “Ah.  Quite an adventure you’ve set out on, then.  Are you having second thoughts?”

“No.  Just bewilderment.”

He smiled and stroked his cheek against hers, which was warm from beginning to blush.  “Then try everything.  This is how you learn.”

Isabella turned to face them, little changed since the last time he had seen her.  The life of a pirate had not stripped away all of her softness; she remained more fleshy than his lithe elven girl in breast and hip.  She stood in place for a moment, hip cocked slightly to the side, posing for them, confident in her own appeal.

Taniva stood still, Zevran behind her, wondering whether she was going to need him to set things in motion, or if she would dislike that.

Isabella regarded the Warden with a predatory grin.  “Are you going to be shy, sweet thing?  It is late for that.”

“No,” Taniva answered quietly.  She stepped forward and brushed her hands over Isabella’s shoulders and onto her breasts, her touch delicate and uncertain.  Isabella smiled and nodded, and Taniva’s exploration began to grow bolder.  Zevran closed the gap between them and brushed Taniva’s hair aside to kiss the back of her neck, which made her gasp.  Then she whimpered more loudly as Isabella stole a kiss from her, and with that, all was right with the world.  Together they eased Taniva’s garments away from her, exposing all of her lovely paleness to them.  The view over her shoulder at the women’s breasts pressed against each other was delightful.

Isabella pointed at him, smirking, and Taniva turned to face him.  They dragged him toward the bed by his collar and stripped him with a ruthlessness they’d spared Taniva, much to his amusement.  The Warden leaned forward and grabbed him into a giddy kiss, but it was broken too soon when Isabella yanked her away and threw her down onto the bed.

“This is my party,” she purred, straddling the elf girl and looking coyly at Zevran over her shoulder.  “Make him wait.”

For just a second his defensive instincts overrode his sexual ones, and he stood ready to subdue Isabella if he saw any distress in his Warden, who might not take well to this much aggression.  But apparently, with a woman – or with him standing by, perhaps he could flatter himself – it was different.  Instead of protesting or lashing out, Taniva reached up and grabbed Isabella by the nipples, pulling her down with surprising assertiveness.  He relaxed into watching the women grind against each other; Isabella gave one of her better growls as Taniva raised a breast to her mouth and grazed it with her teeth.  She was a fast learner.

Isabella was mad if she really thought he would be content with waiting.  He knelt behind them, sliding his hands up Isabella’s thighs and giving a teasing bite to her hip.  She laughed and reared back toward him, creating the space for him to caress his Warden’s breast with one hand.  It was important to make sure Taniva was always pleasantly occupied:  a bad first experience might put her off of groups forever, and make her resentful of him besides, even though this had been her idea.

Either Isabella understood the principle, or she just wanted to be the one in the middle:  she continued to back down Taniva’s body until she was in position to throw the elf’s legs open and attack with her tongue.  Taniva whimpered happily, but almost immediately, Isabella paused to glance back at Zevran.  “Come on, then,” she said.  “Me first.”

Again he found himself looking to his Warden, checking for her permission.  Every other time he had been in a similar position he had assumed consent, had _created_ it when he needed to.  Now he was waiting.  Isabella was not:  she resumed licking at Taniva, whose eyes went soft, and her hand reached up for Zevran’s.  Encouragement.  He twined his fingers with hers as he entered Isabella from behind, watched her eyes roll shut as the pirate’s tongue moved faster.  Soon she was aroused enough to drop Zevran’s hand in favor of holding Isabella’s head in place and arching her back.  Hands free, he took hold of the other woman’s haunches for better control of his depth.

Both women were whimpering, Isabella’s hands roaming over the Warden’s body with increasing abandon.  From this vantage point, Zevran could see every expression that flickered over Taniva’s face as her pleasure overtook her, and it was beautiful.  All the hardness life had imposed on her fell away, and only the beauty remained.  As she came her eyes flew open, alight, and locked on his, and he realized that he was never going to be able to leave her.  She had become so deeply enmeshed in all his thoughts that losing her would tear him to pieces.

He covered for his smitten gasping by withdrawing from Isabella and smacking her ass playfully.  “Clearly it is time to switch places,” he said.  The pirate harrumphed at him but came back up onto her knees, taking Taniva’s hands and pulling her into a sitting position.  He leaned in between them, and all three met in a loose, wandering kiss, tongues extended.  Tasting her on someone else’s lips almost made his head swim.  And then he felt her fingers stroking his cock, but much too gently, and he needed –

He needed to regain some kind of control, that was what he needed.  Breaking from the kiss, he leaned toward her ear.  “Now you try, _amora._   I would like to see it.”

Mercifully she was distracted enough to let the Antivan word pass – it was Isabella who raised an eyebrow at him, because she understood it.  He willed her not to comment, and decided that he must also control his new tendency to allow himself declarations of passion aloud in Antivan.

They shifted to make room for Isabella to lie down, the other two kneeling on either side of her.  They seized on a breast each, kneading and licking and watching each other do the same as Isabella bucked and laughed.  Their hands traced down the pirate’s stomach side by side; but when they found her hair, he slid his hand over Taniva’s and pressed it the rest of the way.  She hooked her middle finger and stroked, and as Isabella was moaning in satisfaction, looked slyly at Zevran.  “Yes, Zev,” she whispered, “I know where it is.”

With that, she started to lick her way down the path her hand had taken, and Isabella nodded in feverish agreement.  “She does, Zev.  She does not – mm! – need to be schooled.”

Zevran smiled hungrily, watching his Warden tease the pirate’s thighs with unexpected familiarity.  “You said you had never done this before.”

She grinned.  “No, I asked you to make your question more precise, because it affected the answer.  No pirates, no threesomes.  She is not my first woman.”

He stroked Isabella’s nipples as Taniva dove into her in earnest, pleased beyond all hope.  “Every day you are more wonderful, my dear Warden.”  But then the woman between them started making enough noise to motivate him to stifle her cries with his mouth, which ended the conversation.

But it was only enough for him for a moment.  He left Isabella to move behind his darling – it was a mark of how far gone he was that he could think of her as such without immediately correcting himself – and let his mouth and hands wander slowly over her back.  He ached with desire, not only in the places he expected but in his heart, which was somehow finding a way to pine for her even though she was in front of him.  She sighed, twisting to raise toward him whatever part he touched, which of course compelled him to keep moving to tease her.  She took out her frustrations on Isabella, sucking harder at the woman’s clit and pinching her nipples until she shrieked.

Enough.  He pulled Taniva back by the shoulders, pressing her back against him, then holding her there with his teeth while he slid his arms around her.  He could feel her starting to tremble even before Isabella rose and started licking at sensitive places on the front of her body.  Between them she whimpered and shook, and he drank it in joyously.

“What do you want?” he whispered to her.  She bent her arm back to touch his head, but apparently could not respond.  “What?” he smiled, licking her ear.  “How will I know what to do if you will not tell me?”  That got him a groan and a dirty look, and he chuckled, even though by waiting he was torturing himself as much as her.

“I will teach you to say it in Antivan,” he breathed at last.  “ _Scopami._ ”  He grazed up and down the side of her neck, grinding against her.  “Say it.  _Scopami._ ”

Her lips moved silently a few times before she could make herself say the word.  “ _Scopami._ ”

He pushed into her instantly and reeled at what a relief it was for them both, how they seemed to melt into each other.  “I am yours,” he sighed into her ear, and started to move in time with her.  He was vaguely aware of other hands on his skin, a kiss from lips that could not be hers, but he was too overwhelmed to pay attention to such fine distinctions.  His Warden fell onto all fours, calling out to him in mad, wild sounds – perhaps he was responding in kind: it was hard even to know –  and he clutched at her hair to pull her back into his thrusts.  This was everything, she was everything.

Everything burst into waves of shuddering bliss, and then they froze, gasping.  He laid her down and curled himself around her, reached up to brush her sweat-soaked hair out of her face.  As his awareness gradually expanded again, he remembered that Isabella was with them, and was lying at Taniva’s other side, idly stroking the elf’s stomach and looking at Zevran with what he had to read as amusement.

Maker help him, the longing was still there.  How could there still be longing when he was spent?  What was he supposed to do with it now?  Helpless, he followed his compulsion to nestle his face into her hair.  It eased the discomfort, a little, as did the hand she brought up to touch his.

Isabella was the one who pulled them back into reality.  “Ah, there, Zev.  Just like old times.”  He thought she gave Taniva a catty look with that, but she moved on before he could be sure.  “Are we going to lie around doing nothing, sweet thing, or should we go and give you your lesson?”

He sighed.  “We should probably be on our way, it’s true.  Places like this charge by the hour, not by the night.”

Taniva took a deep, slow breath, and her eyes drifted open.  “Mmm.  Then I think I would like to clean up a bit before I go out to the others.”

“It’s communal baths here,” Isabella said.  “End of the hall for the women.  Take a towel from the drawers there.”  By way of explanation, she added with a lopsided grin, “This is a regular port of call for us.”

Taniva crawled out from between them to the foot of the bed, then retrieved a cream-colored towel and wrapped it around herself.  Holding its corners in place with a sudden awkwardness, she slipped out of the room.  Zevran smiled and rose to gather his own clothes.

“I think she enjoyed it,” Isabella drawled, not bothering yet to get out of bed.  “Even if she only did it to impress you.”

“Don’t be foolish.”

“I’m a piece of your past _and_ a chance to prove she can keep up with you.”  The condescending grin was audible.  “No worries about that, though.  She’s ruined you, hasn’t she?”

“Do you talk to yourself a lot on the ship?  I suppose sailors are not very fascinating company after a while.”

She sat up quickly to lean toward him.  “Poor, poor Zevran.  I never thought the one to bring you down would be some scruffy little creature from _il paese dei cani._ ”

He spun on her ready to lash out, and as she laughed in his face, he realized that she was right.  He cared far too much, but there was nothing he could do about it now.  Instead of snapping, he sighed.  “Who did you think it would be, then?”

“I thought you’d get yourself killed before we found out.”  She rolled casually out of the bed at last.  “I like her, actually.  She suits you.  Just remember that she’s more dangerous to you than the Crows.”

That felt true, as well.  The nature his Warden drew out of him was in defiance of everything he had been taught in years of being hardened and sharpened into a weapon.  He’d always prided himself on keeping pleasure and humor alive under that steel surface, but she seemed to dip deeper into something that was too soft, something that could only end up destroying them both.

At least, that was what he kept telling himself as they went outside with Isabella, and the women practiced beautiful, dancelike knifeplay until Leliana and Alistair returned for them.

He’d never noticed before how tiring it was to be cynical.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in honor of the true fact that in this playthrough, the threeway in the Pearl was what put Zevran at 100% approval of Taniva. For real.


	36. Fetch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Crows have finally sent someone after Zevran...his ex-lover Taliesin.

            He was already gone, the cagey bastard.  No one would admit to recognizing the name, but several people affirmed the description, and that being the case, the fact that Ignacio and his men _wouldn’t_ admit to seeing Zevran was itself telling.

            Taliesin had only missed him by a few days.  Even if Zev had gone barmy, his luck and his instincts were still sound.

            Barmy, nonetheless.  As far as Taliesin could tell, Zev hadn’t made one good decision since Rinna.  Running off alone on what everyone else could see was a suicidal contract whether it succeeded or failed – and then, according to all signs Taliesin could find, _deliberately_ failing.  And _then_ remaining in Ferelden, like he was just waiting to get caught.  Moving around only just enough to make it look like he was trying.

            He couldn’t really want to die over that fucking minx, could he?  She’d been trouble whether or not she was really a traitor.  And besides, if that was what he’d wanted, he could have just let the mark kill him.  So it was a test for Taliesin, a chance to prove he cared enough to hunt his little whore down and then rescue him from the mess he’d made for himself.  And then shag him until he couldn’t walk straight, but only after he’d _beaten_ him until he couldn’t see straight. 

            All this sodding _drama_ , this constant proving.  Killing Rinna for him wasn’t enough, or the jobs they’d done together, or all the times he’d strapped the knife-ear down and made him howl.  All the beatings he’d given Zev for his ridiculous flirtations, or to other Crows for being a threat to Zev.  Meaningless, apparently.  Well, this was an especially impressive mess Zev had made, this time:  maybe this would finally be the one that convinced him he couldn’t lose his Dog.

            Their Master knew it.  As soon as he saw Taliesin was bidding for the new contract, the decision was made.  He’d never say it, but unlike Rinna, Zev was worth more to him alive than dead.  If Taliesin could make Zev finish his contract and come home, the Master was quite willing to leave it at that.  Actually killing the elf was a last resort, and Taliesin had the best chance of convincing him to be sensible.

            Meanwhile, however, Zev’s client had to be appeased.

            Arl Howe, he’d been told, under the direction of Regent Loghain – except that Loghain wanted such distance between himself and the contract that he would not meet with Taliesin directly.  Taliesin wondered if Zev had gotten to see the Regent:  he always liked to see how far up the ladder he could go toward the real source of his contracts, and he had a way with these types that Taliesin lacked.  And the prettiness didn’t hurt.

            At any rate, it was Howe who condescended to come and discuss Zev’s apparent lack of progress.  He was a pinch-faced, skinny man, and a sort that even Taliesin could read at a glance, because he’d seen it so many times in his line of work:  bitter even though he had all the advantages in the world.  A common feature of men who hired Crows, as it happened, but Howe looked like someone whose desire to lash out didn’t stop at people who were actively in his way.

            _You always pick the winners, don’t you, Zev?_

            “All in all,” he was saying in a snobbish tone Taliesin didn’t care for, “I would say the results so far reflect well neither on the Crows, nor on the _price_ I paid for them.”

            “The Master sends his sincere apologies,” Taliesin intoned – it was a speech he’d memorized in advance, knowing he wasn’t good at coming up with them on the spot.  “These things can take time, and Wardens are especially dangerous.  Your man is just – ”

            “ _My man_ ,” Howe sneered, cutting him off.  “The Regent advised _my man_ to ambush the Wardens outside Redcliffe, and I must assume that there was some kind of scuffle there, since it is where we found the bodies of the assistants I hired for _my man._   Except that the Wardens are still alive somewhere, and _my man_ is nowhere to be found.”

            “Sometimes,” Taliesin said as patiently as he could, “it’s more complicated than that.  If he’s not dead and the targets aren’t dead, then he’s watching them.  He’s looking for a better opening to hit them.”

            “Pfah!  I didn’t pay for a _spy_ , I paid for an assassin!  And a spy who doesn’t report his findings is worse than useless.  Do you understand that they are out there actively _disrupting_ everything we are trying to accomplish?  Do you know that rumor has come back to Denerim that they have saved the life of our Regent’s most dangerous rival?  By finding a _holy relic?_ ”  He practically spat the words, he was so outraged.  “You would be surprised to learn how hard it is to keep the people’s hatred raised against finders of _holy relics._   How much time does he think we can spare him for ‘looking for openings’?”

            Taliesin held up his hands in appeal.  “I assure you that they will not survive to do you or your cause – ” whatever it was: he wasn’t paid to care – “real harm.  I am your failsafe: that is why I’m here.  I’m setting up my crew in Denerim to protect you.  If it’s true that Z... your man has failed, we will kill the Wardens the next time they set foot in Denerim.”

            It was true as far as it went, and it was as much truth as Howe needed or deserved.

            It seemed to please him: he calmed down a bit.  “A full team?  Of _proper_ Crows?  Are any of you familiar with the city?”

            Taliesin grinned.  “I was born here.  You should hear my accent in Antivan.  Bloody awful.”

            He wasn’t supposed to talk like that to noble clients, but in this case it seemed like the right move.  Howe nodded approvingly.  “Good, perhaps you’ll have some sense.”  He added in more of a mutter, “I couldn’t believe it when they sent a pouty little _knife-ear_ to kill Wardens.  He looked like he’d serve better as a bedwarmer.”

            That twisted in Taliesin’s gut a little.  “He uses it to catch people off guard.  I assure you our Master wouldn’t have sent him if he wasn’t capable.”

            “So you know him.”  The old man – not _really_ old, Taliesin realized; as Howe started to grin, the Crow saw a flush of vigor in him.  A man who had started out plain looking and then been prematurely worn further by greed and vice.  The grin he put on showcased both.  “I imagine he’s capable of a great deal when he’s beaten properly.”

            _Did you touch him?  If you touched him I will kill you both._

            But he had better self-control than that; he restrained himself from lashing out immediately, and that allowed him to see how much Howe enjoyed seeing the flicker of rage in his eyes.  A sadist, naturally.  The taunt was a hollow one, for the moment, but all the same Taliesin could feel instinctively that it was one he _would_ follow through on, given any chance.  So Zev’s punishment would have to wait until after they’d killed the Wardens _and_ Howe.

            Howe would need to look like an accident.  If they killed a client in a way that could be traced back to them, they would be right back in trouble.

            That was one more excuse to settle in and wait in Denerim.  From what he could gather, Zev was with the Wardens, the lot of them had been here at least once, and they knew that Howe and the Regent were a threat to them.  So they would come back sooner or later, and Taliesin would have them without being forced to run all over Ferelden chasing them.  And in the meantime, he could learn Howe, and put together a fitting demise for him.

            He forced himself to smile.  “Of course he is, ser.  Any Crow knows how to take a good beating.  We’re trained to it.”

            “Is that so!” Howe’s smile went more avaricious, and it was not a great improvement.  “I assume you include yourself in that statement?”

            Taliesin nodded.  _Oh, yes, if it means I get close enough to you to know your weaknesses.  Zev’s better at it than I am, but I can do it.  And if you’re a switch, it’ll be my pleasure to beat you blind._

            Howe’s eyes swept up and down his body quickly, making an assessment.  “How pleasing,” he purred, apparently satisfied by what he saw.  “It may be worth a bit extra to me to know that.  Come back tomorrow, and we can discuss it further.”

            Taliesin bowed, spun on his heel, and left pondering how something could look like an accidental death and yet be slow and painful.

**  
**


	37. Dragons in Silk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's much easier for Zevran to show his feelings when Taniva is asleep.

            By instinct, when the noise woke him he drew the dagger he kept beside him at night and sat up, whirling toward the direction of the sound.

            No – it was Taniva, whimpering.

            He sighed and sheathed his weapon.  Best not to intervene right away, he thought:  sometimes it would only be a little dream, and she would pass through it without waking or getting any worse than this.  Better in that case to let her sleep undisturbed.  As he waited, he wondered which of her nightmares this was.

            She did not quiet.  Her noises grew more plaintive, and her arms were beginning to twitch, as if there were something for her to resist – ah, then he knew.  It was the one with Vaughan.  As much as Zevran enjoyed the knowledge that his Warden had killed the man, it always made him a little bit sad, in these moments of dealing with the aftermath, to know that he would never have the pleasure of doing it himself.

            He took hold of her arm to stop her struggling, but that by itself would only drive her into a panic.  “ _Sono solo io, amora_ ,” he purred into her ear.  “ _Sono solo Zevran._ ”

            Her resistance started to drop.  Awake, she would always complain when he lapsed into Antivan – especially since both context and instinct told her that he did it most when very aroused or provoked, when he was saying the things that would be the most dangerous for her to understand.  But half-asleep, it seemed to soothe her; perhaps it made it easier to recognize that it must be him speaking and no one else.

            He slid his hand up her arm, shifting to petting her hair as he talked her down.  “Ssh.  _Lui non è qui. E’ morto, tesoro mio. Sei al sicuro con me._ ”  Pulling her hair back moved naturally into stroking her cheek.  It could be understood, if not forgiven, coveting something so beautiful.  But – it always took him by surprise, the hurt conjured by remembering this about her.  He knew a thousand sad stories, after all, more than a fair number of them his own.  Few of them seemed to crawl under his skin in just this way.

            The stage between panic and relaxation was sorrow.  She wriggled back against him; he curled forward a little more so that she could feel him enfolding her.  She did not weep openly, but he began to feel moisture on her cheekbone as he continued petting her.  “Zev?” she whispered, reaching up to wrap his arm around her.

            “ _Si, amora._ ” 

            “Good.  I don’t want anyone else to touch me.”

            “I will dismember anyone who looks at you, _amora._   Go back to sleep.”  He did not fancy himself a singer:  he had taken to reciting poetry to her when he needed to make her rest.  He breathed the lines into her hair, softly.

_“Benedetto sia 'l giorno, et 'l mese, et l'anno,_  
et la stagione, e 'l tempo, et l'ora, e 'l punto,  
e 'l bel paese, e 'l loco ov'io fui giunto  
da'duo begli occhi che legato m'anno; 

__

__

_et benedetto il primo dolce affanno_  
ch'i' ebbi ad esser con Amor congiunto,  
et l'arco, et le saette ond'i' fui punto,  
et le piaghe che 'nfin al cor mi vanno.”

            Surely there was at least a grave for him to spit on, somewhere in Denerim.  He would have to look for it if fortune took them there.

            Her breathing was slow and deep again now, and he relaxed against her, and drifted off wondering, as he always did at this point, why he could not make himself say these things in her language and when she was awake – these things he barely understood himself and yet felt more and more strongly.  But he was a renegade Crow, a man who had murdered and fucked his way across Antiva:  it was absurd to try now to re-imagine himself into his Warden’s faithful champion.

            It didn’t matter.  The heart had its own demands, and it insisted on whispering them in Antivan when he and Taniva were both too weak to resist.  The words escaped as he faded back toward sleep himself.  “ _Ti amo._ ”

**  
**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sono solo mio, amora." = "It's only me, love."  
> "Lui non è qui. E’ morto, tesoro mio. Sei al sicuro con me." = "He isn't here. He's dead, my treasure. You're safe with me."
> 
> And from another poem by Petrarch:  
> Oh blessed be the day, the month, the year,  
> the season and the time, the hour, the instant,  
> the gracious countryside, the place where I was  
> struck by those two lovely eyes that bound me;  
> and blessed be the first sweet agony  
> I felt when I found myself bound to Love,  
> the bow and all the arrows that have pierced me,  
> the wounds that reach the bottom of my heart.


	38. A Dark Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make short work of the Dalish problem, but Zathrian's story hits unpleasantly close to home.

            She knew she shouldn’t laugh.

            It was a miracle that they had even found them again – the same tribe of Dalish that had refused to treat with them before.  But here they were, not further gone from their previous location because _werewolves_ had attacked them, and half their hunters were too sick from their bites to be moved.

            So now, they wanted _help._

            But Taniva also needed theirs; and after all, they were elves, and they hadn’t been actively unkind, at least not to her or Zevran.  Just condescending.  So even though the conversation about _werewolves_ kept reminding her of when Zev had said the Dalish saw themselves as wolves and him as a stray dog, she held down the impulse to laugh.

            “You understand,” she said as placidly as she could, “that if I save your hunters, I will have to borrow some of them back against the Blight.  Do you concede that?”

            “Yes,” Zathrian sighed.  “I have little choice.”

            “Neither do I.  Don’t expect me to feel guilty for making you help save yourselves from worse than werewolves.”

            How glibly she said it: _worse than werewolves._   But going into the heart of the Brecilian Forest was different from skirting its edges.  The ordinary wolves attacked them.  Bears and spiders attacked them.  The _trees_ attacked them.  An abandoned campsite they happened across turned out to be a demon’s lair, and when it had lulled her companions to sleep she had to fight it alone for all their lives.

            Actually, the werewolves themselves were the least violent things they encountered.  They fought, yes – but they always began by telling Taniva to turn back and leave them alone.  It might have caused her to wonder, if not for the elf woman they found freshly turned, who told them how her blood was burning and begged for death.

            That was enough to keep everyone motivated through the interminable conversations with the _rhyming tree_ that were required to get its help in breaking the spell that hid the werewolves’ lair.  Growing up, almost the only tree in her experience had been the _vhenadahl_ , an object of community reverence and the location of many of her childhood memories.  Now she was beset by violent trees and trees that rhymed, and she was not sure she liked green things at all any more.

            The werewolves had taken over an ancient elven ruin – a fact Taniva realized gradually and with growing ambivalence.  There had been a time when the city elves had been the strong ones, when her kind had not been divided up into slaves on one side and beasts on the other.  Here it all sat, lost, and _none_ of them remembered how it had been....

            Again, still, the werewolves themselves were the least of her problems.  There were ghosts here, figurative and literal.  And a young dragon, and giant accursed spiders, which meant repeatedly fighting their way out of nets of cobweb that dropped from ceilings onto them.  She hated that particularly, but at least Zevran’s exaggerated noises of horror as he picked webbing out of his hair were worth a giggle.  (And then he would pick it out of _her_ hair, which was a convenient excuse for stolen moments of closeness between battles.)

            Several stories down into the earth, the werewolves finally put up a fight, at least at first.  But _again,_ their apparent leader – this one called himself Gatekeeper – called on them to stop, and this time he asked them to agree to parlay.

            Fine, she thought.  If this Gatekeeper answered to the “Lady” they kept mentioning, then she was a step closer to the source.

            The “Lady” was green.  And apparently a shapeshifter, since she also claimed to be the wolf Taniva had been sent to find, the source of the werewolves.  And the story she told about why all of this was happening was –

            Taniva recoiled from it as if she had been punched in the stomach. 

            “I must speak with Zathrian,” the Lady insisted.  “He must put an end to this.”

            _He_ must?  He had only done what – if Taniva had been a mage –

            But he had done it so long ago.  Generations had come and gone since then.

            She turned toward her companions feeling hollow.  “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

            She did, really.  Even if she hadn’t, it would have been clear in Alistair’s face what the “right” thing to do was.  But it was grabbing Zevran’s hand that gave her the strength to nod and leave the werewolf lair to seek Zathrian and bring him back.

            It was not a surprise to learn that Zathrian had followed them and was not far away, nor that he was angered by the Lady’s request to speak with him.  She _was_ the curse that made the werewolves what they were, after all; and he was the one who had set her there.

            “Did the spirit also tell you what those men did to my children?” Zathrian hissed.

            Taniva nodded, trying to hold the sickness out of her face.  Killed the son and raped the daughter.  She knew far too well.  “But those men are dead,” she told him.  “Long ago.  None of _these_ people had even been born then.  You can’t... you can’t punish them forever.”

            If she had been a mage, how many generations would the curse on Denerim have lasted? 

            “Please, Zathrian, you can’t,” she whispered.  “Be better than they were.”

            Maybe he could sense how deeply she understood.  He let her lead him back to where the Lady was waiting, and there he ended both the curse and himself, leaving behind a pack of half-wild _shems_ to learn how to be people again. 

            The girl who inherited his position in the Dalish tribe promised their help against the Blight.  In that sense, everything had worked out.  Still, it was not a thing to simply be forgotten, its scraps cut into triangles and stitched into her victory quilt.  Taniva found herself still thinking about it after they had left the Dalish camp for the last time to make their way back out of the forest.

            “You are taking this one too hard, I think,” Zevran observed, alternating between rubbing her neck and playing with her hair.

            She didn’t look up from the map she was trying to pretend to study.  “Of course I am.  I would have done the same thing he did, if I’d known how.”

            “I know.”  He planted a quick kiss on her shoulder.  “He succeeded, and he lived a long life, and now we have what we need.  It could hardly have gone better.”

            _You don’t understand.  My father wouldn’t have.  He didn’t fight for my mother, and he wouldn’t have fought for me._

She sighed.  “Everything is always so big and serious.  Maybe we should have run off with Isabela to be pirates after all.”

            “Ah, I see!”  Zev chuckled, nibbling playfully at her throat.  “You miss Isabela, do you?”

            She smirked a little, but contained herself.  “I was thinking more of the piracy.”

            “Hmm, yes.  That might make an excellent career for you when this is over.  Although in that case, we should have asked Isabela how she kept her skin that soft.  It is not usual among sailors.”

            “You’re being silly when I am trying to read this map.”

            He sat back away from her.  “Of course, my dear Warden!  You must go on.  _Big and serious_ , as you put it.  Proceed.”

            The silence was dizzying.  She wasn’t used to winning these things.  Now she felt obligated to actually plot their course on the map, even though it was really Alistair and Wynne who could make sense of such things, and she only looked at them by herself for appearances.  She ran a finger across the scroll from the word _Brecilian_ to the word _Orzammar_ , slowly and thoughtfully as if it meant something.

            He was close behind her again.  She could feel him there, lurking.  _Prowling._   She tried to ignore him but couldn’t help herself.  “What are you doing?”

            He answered in a whisper full of ridiculously false menace.  “Overhauling you on the starboard side.”

            She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but it was the way Isabela’s men had talked.  She snickered a little and peeked at him over her right shoulder, where he was creeping toward her on his hands and knees.  “Zevran – ”

            “ _Pirate_ Zevran.  Surrender quietly, lass.”

            She knew she shouldn’t laugh – it only encouraged him.  She started giggling anyway.  “No!”

            He grinned and shook his head.  “Stubborn wench.  Then prepare to be boarded.”  With that, he pounced.  Her shrieking brought no help, a testament to either how much trust Zevran had earned or how accustomed the party had become to hearing Taniva shriek.

            Or it meant that they could make out the words, “ _No fair tickling!_ ”

**  
**


	39. The Girl Who Never Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That baby conversation between Zevran and Shale isn't all a joke. Originally a stand-alone. Warning: implied possible forced miscarriage.

What was she talking to Wynne about for so long?

Zevran moved closer to the fire, hoping the heat would distract him from his thoughts.  He’d learned her cycle well enough over these months on the road together; he knew she was late.  And –

Shale had warned him once that sex led to babies, as if he might not be aware.  Without thinking he had answered, “Would that be such a bad thing?”  And when _everyone_ within hearing range had turned to look at him as if he had just kissed a hurlock, he’d deflected with, “I mean, _making_ them can be a lot of fun.”  They had all relaxed, having been given what they expected.

Only it had been his real thought, and it had refused to leave.  As he stood by the fire trying not to think about why she might be talking to Wynne, he was picturing a little girl with his hair and her eyes, running and laughing with toy weapons in her hands.  She would have her mother’s grace, surely, and he would start training her young.  By the time _she_ was seven, she would be a match for any slaver who tried to take her from –

No.  He didn’t know if he and Taniva would still be together by then, or even if they would both be alive.  To hope for something so… so enduring was nonsense. 

He did not ask what she and Wynne had discussed.  And when she bled two days later, he agreed that it was for the best, that it would have been the worst possible time for such a thing to have happened.

But the thought still lurked there, back in the dark corners of his mind, next to all the other soft, selfish ideas his years of training had failed to quell.


	40. A Man of Hidden Talents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the dinner wars, Zevran has finally regained access to cooking privileges.

            Leliana made Zevran walk in front of her as they went to gather their companions to dinner.  It had been months since Zev had been banished from cooking duty, after a physical altercation with Alistair over whether he had added poison or fennel to the stew.  That he had finally been allowed back into rotation for that chore, under the condition that he cook with a partner who kept a close watch on him, was an enormous step, and Leliana was proud and happy for him.

            If anyone understood the importance of being trusted to start a new and better life, it was Leliana.  And if anyone understood the Antivan’s frustration with bland Ferelden fare, it was the Orlesian.  She’d eagerly volunteered to be his cooking partner.  She did not want to spoil everything now by leaving him unattended by the food while she announced it ready – for all she knew, Alistair would refuse to eat it, and there would be more fretting and arguing.

            Poor sweet Alistair.  She kept meaning to talk to him, to see if she could make him feel better.  Jealousy could be so awful, and even worse when one knew one had no real right to be jealous.

            With the Antivan safely accounted for, Alistair came willingly to the fire with everyone else.  Even Shale came:  she didn’t technically eat, of course, but she seemed to feel that watching everyone else eat and listening to their conversations was better than just staring into space by herself.  Taniva caressed Zev’s shoulder as she passed – they seemed never to pass by each other without touching, which Leliana thought was adorable, if a bit flagrant.  Wynne averted her eyes tactfully, Alistair with a hair of discomfort, and Morrigan rolled hers.

            “So,” Alistair said.  “What have we got?”

            Leliana had to suppress a shriek of anticipation, but Zevran was able to respond with perfect composure.  “Chicken with cracked barley and wild mushrooms.”

            Taniva grinned in disbelief.  “But that’s actually _food._ ”

            “I thought that would make a nice change, yes.”

            Leliana permitted herself a giggle as she – not Zevran, since Maker forbid he should slip something in at the last moment – dished out portions.

            “Chicken,” Shale said.  “They are going to eat a filthy bird?”

            “Yes, Shale.”  Zevran nodded cheerfully.  “And that means we had to kill it.  Doesn’t that make it a good thing?”

            “Now that it mentions it.”  Shale paused a moment, reflecting.  “I don’t know how to feel about this.  Does the painted elf ever eat pigeons?”

            “That is beyond my skills, I’m afraid.  Too gamey.  I am not too bad with a duck or a pheasant, but those are a bit exotic for our current means.”

            “This is _wonderful,_ Zevran,” Wynne smiled.  “I had no idea you were such a good cook.”

            “Yes,” said Taniva, with a sideways glance at Alistair.  “To think we might have been eating this way _the whole time._ ”

            “Could have been poison,” Alistair muttered, although even he was eating.  “It was a long time ago.”

            “One does not spend every waking moment killing people, even as a Crow.  And when one can only trust in pleasures of the moment, cooking is one of the sensible skills to learn.”  He smiled and looked mischievously at Taniva.  “The other I’m sure you are all tired of hearing about.”

            “Or just of _hearing,_ ” Morrigan smirked.  “I am beginning to wonder how many miles away I would have to pitch my tent to get out of earshot.”

            “The Warden and the painted elf do make an awful lot of noise,” Shale agreed.  “Sometimes I wonder if you are killing each other in there.”

            “Oh, good,” Zevran sighed.  “Start _that_ in their heads again.”

            “At any rate,” Wynne said loudly, in the tone she used when she wanted a topic – usually this one, in fact – dropped, “I for one am glad to learn something so normal and wholesome about your character.  And I am also glad for the food.”

            “Thank you, Wynne.”

            Leliana finally settled in to eat herself, and it seemed for a moment as if everything was going to be peaceful and amiable for the evening.

            “I wasn’t sure it was time for this,” Alistair said, “but I have to admit, so far it seems to be all right.  I like the mushrooms.”

            Zevran smiled.  “Ah, good.  Oh no, but – ” he stopped short, his eyes rounded for a moment, but then he waved it off.  “No, no, never mind.”

            “Whaaaat?”

            “Nothing.”  Zevran’s smile widened into the grin he wore for arguments.  “I am almost positive I didn’t use the poisonous mushrooms.”

**  
**


	41. Dark Ale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orzammar's Dust Town is so triggering to the two elves in the party that they must go to greater lengths to right themselves. (sex chapter, mild kink)

            Taniva decided quickly that Dust Town was the grimmest place she had ever been.  Darker than the Alienage, lacking any sky; deprived likewise of any sense of openness or possibility of escape; and so filthy and destitute that it seemed as if degenerate nobles would not condescend to enter even to abuse its abandoned people.  Dwarves abandoning dwarves:  and having nothing as obvious as knife-ears to divide the privileged from the oppressed, here they branded the difference into the skin.

            And she was supposed to involve herself in choosing the king’s successor for these people.  Bhelen was the one who claimed opposition to the harshness of the old caste system, so Bhelen was the one she would support.  Damn whatever their normal rules were, and whatever had happened before she came.

            They decided that a night of heavy drinking was called for, and even Wynne agreed.  They were intercepted at the tavern by the red-haired dwarf they had seen drunk and yelling at one of the city guards.  Oghren, that was his name.  He wanted something from them too, like everybody did:  but unlike most people, he was willing to get acquainted first, over drinks.  It was a happy convergence of interests, so they all sat together, and the nasty, bitter dwarven ale began to flow.

            One round and Sten declared himself sufficiently appeased, and retired for the night.  Two rounds and Leliana was trying to teach bawdy songs to Alistair, and laughing as he blushed.  Three rounds and he was singing along with her, and Wynne was chuckling at them, when she wasn’t humming along herself.  Four rounds and Oghren was in his element, flirting with barmaids and taking the lead on songs and stories so ribald that Zevran, of all people, looked restless.

            Unless that wasn’t the issue.  As the party discussed how many ales to buy for the fifth round and Alistair reminisced about drinking contests among the Wardens, Zevran leaned over to her and whispered, “I hope you will accompany me upstairs, my Warden.”

            She grinned.  “And what am I to do once I have you upstairs?”

            He nipped at her ear.  “Mmm.  Terrible things, if I can persuade you.”

            “Let’s find out if you can.”  She rose from the low seat, and hand in hand they wove their way out among the drinking dwarves, toward the stairs that led up to the rooms they’d rented.

            “So, _those_ two, eh?” Oghren bellowed behind them.  “What’s that about?  Do elves only bump nugs with each other?”

            “Do elves _what?_ ” Alistair cried.

            But happily, when the bedroom door closed, the conversation about them blended in with the rest of the downstairs noises rather than pursuing them.  He gave her a light kiss, but then turned and walked away to his pack, rummaging through it for something as she stood and watched.  Bundles of rope.  He laid them out on the bed, then came back to her and kissed her again, more deeply, pulling her toward him by the hands.

            “What is this about?” she asked.

            “It has been… a bad day,” he said, his face still very close to hers and full of brooding that was not usually there.  “I need it to hurt a little, and I want to be sure I cannot hurt you back.”

            She’d always taken the comments about rope and other “terrible things” lightly before, but today at least, he clearly meant them.  “Zev.  I don’t know if I can.  I don’t even understand.”

            His arms came around her waist, but he hissed a little in frustration.  “What do you need to understand?  When _your_ demons come for you, do I ask why they make you want to be held, or do I hold you?”

            “Point taken.  I’m sorry.”  She stroked the sides of his head.  “Although I hope we’re at a point where holding each other comes more naturally than hurting each other.”

            “I am not asking to be crippled.  Just something to… I need the _resistance_ , Taniva.”  She stared at him for that:  he so seldom used her name.  “It could also work with the roles reversed, but I have no intention of asking you for that.”

            For a moment she wondered if he should, if she might actually like to see his skills from that vantage point.  No, not this time.  She would give him the thing he was asking for.

            “I’m in charge tonight, then.”  She shifted back from him, less than a step, letting her eyes sweep down and back up his body as if she was assessing him for the first time.  “In that case, I don’t see what use we’re going to have for your leathers.  Take them off.”  When he hesitated, scanning her eyes to see whether she was serious, she lifted his chin with one finger, a gesture of dominance.  “Now, elf.”

            The smile was almost invisible, but she could see relief and gratitude in his eyes as he stripped for her.  “Whore,” he whispered as the last of his clothes fell away and he stood before her with his hands behind his back.

            She pushed him onto the bed, and felt the tension humming under his skin.  This was a dangerous, ridiculous game:  she could as easily keep a lion as a pet as keep Zevran under control.  But it was what he wanted, and she could not deny that she’d always found the underlying sense of his power appealing.

            And for now, he submitted to her, sat where she’d put him and looked up at her, motionless, waiting.  “I beg your pardon?” she asked.

            “That is what they used to call me.”

            She hated his past.  She wished death back onto everyone who had ever laid a hand on him, retroactively.  “I am not going to call you _whore._ ”

            “No?  How was I different than the women we saw today?  I even have the mark.”  He raised the tattooed side of his face, just slightly.

            It was not going to do him a bit of good to make her cry.  She shoved him the rest of the way down, more forcefully now, and straddled his chest to pin him there.  “I will _not._   Not without a fight.  Choose something else.”

            Again Zevran measured her resolve, then sighed and closed his eyes.  “Very well.  _Puttana._ ”

            She shook her head and grabbed his chin with one hand.  “Pft.  That’ll be Antivan for ‘whore,’ won’t it?  I read you better than that, you know.  But I’ll humor you.”  She thought for a few seconds.  “What is Antivan for ‘pretty?’”

            “ _Carino._ ”

            “Then _carino_ is what you are.  Do I need to tie you down to make you behave properly, _carino_?”

            His eyes snapped open, and he sneered.  “What do you consider proper from a captive?”

            “I’ll take that as a yes.”  But if his mind was already sinking into the game, she might not be able to simply ask him to turn the right way round on the bed.  She grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head, and felt his breath quickening against her neck.  She had to reach down with one hand for the rope, knowing that she did not have the strength to keep him still if he decided to struggle; but for the moment, he did not.  She crossed his arms a little further before binding them together, hand to arm rather than hand to hand.

            “Interesting,” he whispered.  “Not the way that usually occurs to a novice.  You have done this before?”

            Her heart skipped unpleasantly.  “No, I’ve had it done to me.”  Her eyes narrowed.  “And that is the last I will hear of it tonight, _carino._ ” 

He winced and nodded, and with a hint of vehemence she yanked his tied arms in the direction of the headboard, lashing him to it with the remaining portion of the first rope.  She had to pull him very close to the edge, not only to make sure he was secured tightly enough, but because the beds were sized for dwarves, and if she left much room at all at the head, their feet would dangle off the other end. 

            She’d shifted off of him as she turned him, so that now they were side by side.  Next she was faced with the problem of tying his legs.  That she had not been subjected to herself, but she sensed that controlling Zevran adequately would require it.  He would not let himself struggle unless he knew he could do no harm.  She let her fingers trail down his legs as she crawled to the foot of the bed and fetched the rest of the rope; he responded with a slow, deep breath.

            The left ankle first, then the right.  She tried to loop the ropes in a way that would be kind to his skin and his blood flow despite the tightness.  He could tell she was being careful.  “Do you think you need to coddle me, my Warden?  I can take a great deal of punishment.”

            She knelt between his legs, regarding him as coolly as she could manage.  “Am I _your_ Warden tonight, _carino_?  Doesn’t that sound presumptuous given our positions?”

            A lop-sided smirk in response.  “ _Si, padrona._ ”

            She ran her fingertips delicately up and down the insides of his thighs, the opposite of the harshness he was waiting for.  “Then the amount and nature of your punishment are for me to decide, not you.”  Hands up to his chest, slowly, never breaking contact:  then she pinched both nipples, digging the nails in.  He arched his back a little:  he made no sound, but the sides of his mouth quirked up a tiny bit and his eyes rolled shut.  This was the kind of thing he wanted.  “Do you agree?” she asked.

            “ _Si, padrona._ ”

            Eventually she needed to find a way to learn some Antivan words.  She drew both daggers from behind her with a flourish, and just touched them to his sides.  “I assume you’re saying something properly respectful?”

            She could see his skin flushing.  “Mistress,” he breathed.  “It means ‘mistress.’  Am I to believe you would cut me?”

            She did not answer at first.  Instead, she traced her daggers down his body, one and then the other – following the contours of his muscles or his tattoos, stroking the flats down along his torso.  It became a sort of dance, as she swayed and tossed her head as she moved from one side to the other.  Now and then, both blades together.  For a time he watched her, clearly fascinated and increasingly aroused.  When he began to seem too restless, she pressed the tip of one dagger harder against his solar plexus.

            “Should I not cut you?” she asked.  “You’re the one who brought up marks of station and ownership.”  She leaned forward to be closer to his face, not quite within range to be kissed, but her hair brushed his cheek.  “Do I need to declare myself your owner, _carino_?  Do I need to mark you?”

            His breathing was jagged, and she could see him reaching upward with his chin, wishing she would come down to kiss him.  “ _Sono già il vostro schiavo,_ ” he whispered.

            “Hmm,” she said, as much to herself as to him.  “Perhaps I do.  I don’t know what you said, but you only speak Antivan when I’ve hit a nerve, and that didn’t look much like a _no._ ”  She leaned in further, darting to one side as he tried to meet her lips with his, pressing hers against his shoulder instead, then biting him.  He hissed, writhed a little.  She sank her teeth in a little deeper, enough that it would show for a while.

            His head rolled back.  “Yes,” he hissed.  “Harder.”

            She kissed her way softly down to his chest, smiling at the way he panted in his impatience, and there she bit hard enough to draw blood.  He arched toward her rather than away, rewarding her effort with a very soft moan, almost too low to hear.  Pleased with her success, she continued the pattern, alternating between unbearable sweetness and pain, barely-there kisses and bites.  When she had arrived back between his thighs, she paused to withdraw at last the dagger she’d been holding to his chest, and she laid it aside, along with her panties.  Crawling back up astride him, she could feel the pent-up longing vibrating beneath his skin, and his eyes were blazing with it.

            “ _Tu sei_ … you are too perfect for me, _padrona._ ”  He smiled, but beneath his usual bravado the need was visible.  “Do you plan to make me beg?”

            “Beg for what?”  She slid onto him and froze there.  Their eyes locked, and she grinned slowly as his breath hitched.  He rocked his hips upward as much as he could, a silent plea to proceed that she purposefully ignored.

            He struggled against the restraint of his arms.  “Ah.  For you to move.”

            She leaned toward him again, closer now, her face only barely out of reach of his.  “Maybe a little.”

            He tugged again, then chuckled breathlessly.  “Please.”

            She rewarded him with slow rocking and a kiss, which he answered ravenously.  But once they were joined and in motion she couldn’t keep up the pretense for long, and she dug her hands into the mattress and drove them together at full speed, hard, slowing on occasion only to bite his shoulders and throat so that she could hear the happy growls that provoked.

            She wanted to move faster than her hips would bear.  Even her shoulders were tiring from the way she was shoving her body backward over him, and both of them were breathless from want and exertion.  Ultimately it was that frustration that pushed them over the edge together, and as their bodies shook she could feel him fighting, as she was, against crying out.  As the trembling faded she sank into him, nuzzling gently for the first time.  He sighed and kissed her cheek, quieted.

            She untied his hands first, and as she freed his legs he slowly stretched his arms out, flexing his fingers and his wrists.  She pulled his legs together herself, then wearily stripped her leathers off at last.  When she crawled up beside him to rest, he rolled onto his side facing her and nestled in close, soft, oddly vulnerable.  She felt compelled to drape her arm over him, and he rested his top hand on her waist.

            “Did that help?” she asked.

            “It did.  I….”  He hesitated, searching for the words.  “I was not sure you would be willing to give me that.  It means something.  Thank you.”

            She kissed his forehead, stroked his hair.  “Of course, Zev.  You know… we don’t both have to be strong all the time.  When it’s only the two of us.”  She only realized it herself as she said it.  “We can rest.  We can take turns resting.”

            He smiled a little.  “What, on purpose?  It sounds so strange.  I have never done it that way before.”

            “Neither have I.”

            He caressed her back, lifted his eyes to hers.  “It may please you to know that I have never been dominated by a woman in striped socks before.”

            She giggled.  “Oh, good.  I’ve wanted to be first at something.”

**  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sono già il vostro schiavo." = "I am already your slave."


	42. The Lowest Place on Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The discovery of broodmothers means it's Taniva's turn to have a breakdown, and it's a big one. (nightmare of darkspawn sex chapter)

            The world is made of meaningless colors and sounds.  Time and space have melted.  She tries to find something to hold on to, something to tell her why this has happened.

            Vaughan’s cock is choking her, and his thrusts send shocks of pain through her jaw because of the punch with which he reminded her to comply.  One of the others is grabbing her by the hips and –

            No, that isn’t happening now.  That doesn’t happen any more.  She begins to realize that it isn’t even her jaw that hurts at the moment, although the pain is real.  Its origin, though, is down in the torso somewhere.  Her breath is painful and shallow:  perhaps a rib is the problem.  Her senses are starting to focus.  Her blood feels like it is full of needles, and the _smell –_

Darkspawn.  She remembers that the prickling and the smell mean darkspawn, and everything careens out of control again.  They can – it shouldn’t even be possible.  They look and smell half rotted away, they shouldn’t even _have_ – but the memory of forced penetration collides with the information of her senses, and she doubles over in agony, dry heaving.  She knows that they _do_ have.  They take women and rape them and feed them the flesh of their own kind and there is a taste of blood in her mouth –

            Her own blood.  Only her own blood.  She mustn’t lose her mind to panic.  Her attackers are only men:  there is a sick kind of relief to remembering that the face that sneers above her is a human one, and the hard flesh invading her unputrified.  The taint has not claimed her.  One of them grabs her by the face and forces her back up to kneeling, snarls obscenities at her for disobedience, for making him wait when he is ready to have his turn at her mouth.

            No, that isn’t happening now.

            She doesn’t really know what the voice is saying.  There is just a vague sense of urgency, of the voice desperately requiring something of her that she can’t remember how to provide.  She does not hurt in the right places for what she remembers.  She is sure now that it _was_ men who fucked and beat her, but that was somewhere else long ago, and the excruciating sense of darkspawn relates to something else.  Why had her mind tried to connect the two?  Because of something she had heard and something she had seen.

            Yes.  There had been a woman – no, a monster.  No.  Both.  A woman becoming a monster, and a monster that had once been a woman.  Because the darkspawn had done to them as the _shem_ had done to her.  The surplus awfulness drove them mad, burned holes in their skin, turned legs into tentacles....

            That is where the pain in her side comes from.  She remembers the tentacle colliding with her chest, the crack, the sick loose feeling of dislocation.  The voice continues to insist something incomprehensible as she recalls the moments she looked into those faces, the woman and the monster, and understood the progression.  She remembers the precise second when she realized that the force burning in her blood was the same one she saw in them, made manifest.

            The thoughts of her past and her possible future are trying to merge again, and she wants to scream but it won’t come.  She can feel her body wanting to rock back and forth in a vain effort to soothe herself, but the hands on her face hold her still, and the voice chants over her.  The sounds are oddly familiar, even though she cannot make sense of them, and she has a vague sense that such sounds have calmed her before.

            “ _Torna da me, cara. E' finita. Giuro che questo non ti accadrà mai. Non lascerò che ti accada nulla. Mi stai ascoltando?_ ”

            She knows the voice; she begins to recognize the patterns of the face.  Zev.  He can help her.  He can do what she needs done.

            “Kill me.”  But he does not move.  So she insists, struggling for the coordination to bring her arms up to take hold of his.  “Before I change.”

            “No.  You are not changing, _amora._ ”

            “Maker’s breath, is that what she was thinking?”  Alistair’s voice, that one, from behind Zevran.  “Tan, you’re a Warden!  It’s... it’s not going to be like that for us, because of the Joining.  And this – what happened here wasn’t just the taint, it was – ”

            “Stop helping, Alistair,” Zev snaps over his shoulder.  When he turns to face Taniva again, she is focused enough to see his eyes, and the look in them shocks her into attention.  He is not bothering with any of his usual defenses, and his expression holds not only concern but devotion.  “Soon we will be done here, _amora_ ,” he murmurs.  “We will go far away from this place and never come back to it.”

            Lies.  Her face is wet.  She knows when and where she is, but she cannot be saved with lies.  “I will have to,” she tells him.  “Someday I’ll hear what they do, and I’ll have to come.”

            His fingers dig a little bit into her skin.  “No,” he whispers, “you will not.  That much I will promise you.  Only wait, my dear Warden.  Do not ask this of me until there is nothing else left.”

            She wants to sob, but the spasm of pain in her chest warns her to control herself.  She is in the Deep Roads beyond Orzammar.  She is kneeling in black, tainted blood and stinking muck that has finally stopped oozing out of the dead horror off to her left, and kneeling with her is a killer who is begging her to live.  Darkness and filth dim the gold of his hair and skin, but he is still beautiful.  She realizes she is still holding her daggers, and she drops them to gingerly wrap her arms around him.

            “You know I love you, don’t you?” she asks, because it places fewer demands on her damaged body than crying.

            “Yes, I... I know that.”  He cradles her head gently with one hand, and holds her as tightly as he can without hurting her more.  “Now you must really let me take you to Wynne, _cara mia._ ”

            She nods, but she does not let him go yet.  He is not ready to say the words back to her, but the promise has told her what she needs to know.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Torna da me, cara. E' finita. Giuro che questo non ti accadrà mai. Non lascerò che ti accada nulla. Mi stai ascoltando?”   
> "Come back to me, dear. It's over. I swear this will never happen to you. I will not let anything happen to you. Are you listening to me?"


	43. Trumpets Resounding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On returning once more to Denerim, Zevran and Taniva resume their life of crime while Alistair faces down his prospects as Eamon's pawn.

            This time, their return to Denerim was not the least bit quiet and anonymous.  There was a retinue, and fanfare, and a triumphal procession with Arl Eamon and his attendants into his Denerim estate.  As if all of this were not enough, word had arrived ahead of them that in his company was Cailan’s hidden brother, King Maric’s lost heir.

            Alistair was mortified.  He tried to maintain his frozen grin as he waved stiffly at people who came to gawk as they went by, but everything in his manner suggested a man on the way to the gallows.  Taniva walked beside him, doing what little she could to keep up his spirits.  She owed him that much, since she was the one who had convinced him to agree to this.

            _Someone_ other than Loghain needed to be King, and the Wardens needed Eamon’s support, and Eamon wanted Alistair on the throne.  Who else was there?  What else could they do?

            But of course, such a blatant challenge to Loghain’s authority prompted a blatant response.  She’d have told Eamon as much, if she’d thought there was any point to challenging him on anything.  It was just lucky that the answer wasn’t armed resistance – just Loghain himself, waiting at Eamon’s door to greet them.

            The spindly man next to him was unfamiliar, but the amount of contempt in his face validated everything she’d thought about _shems_ and nobles before she knew Alistair.  In fact... in fact, she reflected uncomfortably, the particular kind of venom in his eyes as he regarded her and her pretty followers was quite familiar.  It was the same marriage of hatred with _coveting_ as she’d seen in Vaughan and his friends.

            The same wasn’t true of Loghain.  His spite was entirely that of a monarch being challenged by his lessers.  He didn’t have nearly the blindness to reality that Cailan had – the King he’d left to die, Alistair’s brother – but Taniva wasn’t sure he understood the kind of man he had standing at his shoulder.  Even after everything he’d done, his air of presumed morality was still intact.

            _Pretender_ , he called Alistair, and Eamon a fool, and in spite of her loyalties  Taniva couldn’t entirely disagree with either.  Even more awkward, when the woman standing as Loghain’s guard scolded Taniva for speaking to her “betters” and called her a _churl,_ Loghain silenced her.

            She’d heard the same stories as everyone else growing up, about Loghain the hero.  He’d grown up common and on the run; of course his sensibilities were different from those who spent their whole lives blinded, in one way or another, by money and power.  Taniva hadn’t shared Alistair’s naive love of either Duncan or Cailan; if she started thinking that Loghain was sincere in wanting to unify Ferelden and end the Blight, how could she support Alistair to depose him and really mean it?

            Oh, easy, that:  she could think about losing Eamon’s army, and the slim chances of persuading Loghain to handle the archdemon according to _her_ instructions.  And the much greater chance that any tolerance of Loghain was a cruelty to Alistair, because he _had_ loved Duncan and Cailan.  He’d been as good as a brother to her; his enemies were hers.

            And Howe – that was the name of the spindly man –  was standing with Loghain, and Howe seemed very much the sort she would rather stand against than for.  He said little, but that _look_.  The look would have been enough by itself to make her lash out violently, many months ago.  But she had hardened since then – or her fear and anger had _softened_ , perhaps, or –

            They left Eamon’s doorstep without it coming to blows.  “Loghain is looking more tired than I remember,” Zevran whispered over her shoulder as soon as they were passing the gate.  “Howe, though, seems very pleased.  It does not look well on him.”

            “You met them both when – ” she stopped without saying _when you took the contract on my life._   It was a fact more mutually pleasant to ignore, now.  Zevran nodded.  “Is he as awful as I think he is?” she asked.

            “He did not go out of his way to show me at the time, but I would say yes.”

            “Wonderful.”

            “Cheer up, _amora._   This time we know they have noticed us!”  He pressed against her back as she snorted.  “Think of the constant danger of intrigue we will enjoy now!  You will taste the lives of spies and assassins!”

            “I’d rather taste ale,” Alistair scowled.  “Ugh, it was all I could do not to jump right past Eamon and – and now,” he added, glancing over his shoulder to make sure his foster father was far enough away to speak candidly, “he’s going to want to talk to me all night about the Landsmeet, and being _King_.”

            “I know,” Taniva said reassuringly.  “He’s used to being in charge.  Take advantage of that.  Learn from him.”

            “I suppose.”  He scuffed one foot against the ground, sulking.  “And I suppose you’re going to say _you’re_ going out into the city to get a feel for what’s happening here.  So I’m going to have to listen to Eamon by myself.”

            It was a relief for him to say it first.  “I’m sure Wynne or Leliana would go in with you.  Or,” she smirked, “take Morrigan with you, and make him suffer.”

            He laughed a little.  “Is it worth the cost to me, I wonder?  Do you think Sten would irritate him?  I do better with Sten.”

            “Take Oghren.”

            “Ooh, agreed!  And he’s already made comments to me about Eamon’s ‘girl-beard.’  That’ll work.  Oh, Maker,” he said, his features suddenly dropping into a look of panic, “that reminds me about what Eamon said about Shale.  Let me go stop the disaster.”

            “Go,” Taniva urged, and Alistair trotted briskly away.

            “What was this?” Zev asked her.

            “Yesterday, the Arl was wondering aloud how to put us up and make his staff comfortable with our strangeness.  He was considering asking Shale to pose as a statue.”

            Zev chuckled.  “And we are not staying to see her answer?”

            “Not if I can help it, no.”  She turned and smiled at him.  “I’m already sick of politics and we’ve barely started.  Maybe you and I could find some mischief to get into.”

            “Ooh, mischief!” he purred.

            That settled, they went out in search of it.  Slim was eager to oblige, and the target he suggested was beyond perfect.  The Teryn’s senechal kept his quarters not on the castle grounds but in the Gnawed Noble Tavern.  To think, they might have robbed him months ago if their luck had not made them stumble into Ignacio’s room first.

            Of course, the matter was not as simple as it would have been for a Crow Master already expecting guests, or a visiting lesser noble.  The senechal had a more generous section of the building portioned off for himself, and between his private chambers and the tavern were guards.

            “I suppose just killing them would be too obvious, hmm?” Zevran mused.

            Taniva nodded.  “I think it would look bad.”

            He raised his eyebrows playfully at her and grinned.  “Then what if we send them a bottle of wine?”

            She caught his meaning quickly, and smiled back.  “There’s a thought.  Let’s buy a nice one.”

            They chose a red with bite, the better to hide the color and flavor of their addition to it.  Zevran was the one who handled getting their mild poison into the bottle without the tampering being obvious.  “Now,” he said, tapping his palm against the cork in satisfaction, “we need someone pretty to convince them to take it.  Shall I go?”

            Taniva snickered.  “It’s all right, Zev, I’ll do it.  Better odds they like girls.”

            He frowned at her.  “Are you sure?  We could bribe the waitress.”

            “No, I’m not bringing in someone we don’t trust.”  She smiled at his concern as his fingers brushed her jaw.  “I promise I’ll be fine.  I’m not afraid to flirt with a couple of tipsy guards.”

            He sighed and kissed her head, his eyes soft.  “I will be nearby, _amora._ ”

            She knew that.  She had the sureness of it as a cloak around her as she took the bottle and made toward the hall where the guards waited, consciously shifting her walk into more of a saunter.  She trusted Zevran, and she trusted herself.  And these louts were hardly _Broodmothers._

            “Helloooooo,” one of the guards called to her, stretching it in a way that implied he was already less than sober.  “We’ve got a new knife-ear!  And she’s pretty.”

            The other, though clearly less drunk, smiled and inclined his head.  “Senechal hasn’t sent out for anything,” he told her.  “So you’ve got no business back here, unless it’s with us.”  The first one sniggered.

            She squelched her instinctive response and cocked her hip to the side instead.  “Oh dear.  Then I’ve completely lost track of whose wine this is.”  She held the bottle up suggestively.

            “Ah,” the first sighed, moving toward her, “I love when the new girls come to make nice with the guards.”  Without further hesitation, he slid a hand down the length of her spine.  She gasped a little and arched, but that was plausible as an accepting gesture, and she half-closed her eyes to encourage them to take it as such.

            “Do they all?” she murmured.  “Here I thought I’d done something clever.”

            The second guard chuckled and moved as close in front of her as the first guard was behind.  “It is clever, if you want to keep your job.  We can make a lot of difference to how nice it is to work here.”

            “Oh, I imagine,” she agreed, and was silent for a moment as she allowed them to trail exploratory fingers up and down her torso, her arms, her face.  “Is this... normally how it’s done?  Right out here in the hall?”  Her eyes unavoidably darted back toward the heart of the tavern, down the way she had come.

            “No one’s looking,” the first sneered, his breath heating the back of her ear.  “None of their business.”  His hands passed up and down her sides in a way that suggested they would be on her breasts next.

            He was wrong:  Zevran was looking, somewhere, even though she couldn’t see him.  She hoisted the bottle with a shy smile.  “Then I’m going to open this.  For my nerves.”  She pulled out the cork and took a fake swig, just enough to moisten her lips and bring a hint of the wine’s scent into her mouth, so she would taste right to them.

            The first guard promptly grabbed the bottle from her and took several gulps from it himself, then passed it to the second in favor of pressing his groin against her ass, pulling her back against him with both hands.  He slid back and forth against her, licking at the back of her neck.

            Her focus was on the second guard, watching to see when he would drink.  She tried to relax into the man behind her, imagining being touched by hands she wanted as she laid her hands on the other man and smiled in encouragement.  He sighed, and his hips swayed forward, and his left hand cupped her breast while his right raised the bottle to his lips.

            _Yes._   Now it was only a matter of time.  She let the second guard kiss her, admiring how little their potion had corrupted the flavor of the wine.  Zevran was watching.  The guard’s tongue was in her mouth and they were grinding against her before and behind, but it was all right, because Zevran was watching.  In fact – in fact the thought began to change the color of her responses a little, and she felt herself relaxing.  What did he think about as they ran their hands more and more feverishly over her and started to tug at the edges of her clothes?  Killing them?  Joining them?

            Joining them and _then_ killing them?

            They started to press against her more heavily.  How far was she supposed to let this go?  How long would – ah, there, it was because they were _leaning_ as they grew tired.  The kisses slowed and the hands lost dexterity, pawing without grace as awareness faded away into sleep.  She heard the one behind her slump to the floor, and had to step one foot back to keep herself and the other from falling into a pile on top of him.

            As quickly as she could disentangle herself and place the other guard on the floor beside his partner, Zevran appeared and rushed to hug her to him.  “Perfectly done, _amora,_ ” he crooned into her ear.  “All is well now.”

            “I know,” she whispered, and grabbed his face toward hers, kissing him fiercely.  He chuckled once in shock but shifted mood quickly enough, cupping her buttocks in his hands and smiling as their tongues met.  She fairly swooned into the wall beside them, nerves suddenly desperate for her real lover.

            For a moment he went along with her, kissing and touching her with all the mastery her targets had lacked.  But then he broke off the kiss and grinned at her, breathless.  “I hate to be the one to say so, but... this is not what we came here for, is it?”

            “No,” she whined.  “I suppose not.  Well, get ready, then, and I’ll open the door.”

            Slowly they withdrew from their embrace and took their places at the sides of the door, she with her picks and he with a vial and a cloth to soak with it while she did her work.  Before long she heard and felt the little click that meant success, and she nodded to him and quietly nudged the door open.  He slipped in before her; she pulled the door back to just a crack and watched him move in beautiful silence behind the man at his desk.  The struggle after Zev put his poisoned cloth over the man’s mouth was very brief.  When it had stopped, Tan stepped in and closed the door behind her.

            “Are the pickings this easy in Antiva?” she asked Zev while she scanned the room for the likeliest hiding spot.

            “Such arrogance, my dear Warden!” he laughed, sitting casually on the desk next to the unconscious Senechal’s head.  “At any rate, I doubt the time has come when you and I should go robbing in Antiva.  But one hears of many pretty things in the cities of Orlais.  Perhaps Leliana could tell us some good places to visit.”

            “Oh, here,” she said, “here it is.”  With a grin, she lifted the fine-wrought circlet of gold and silver.  It was the crown of a Teryn – the crown Loghain would have worn at the Landsmeet, were it not about to go missing.

            She found herself not only giggling uncontrollably, but perching the thing on her own head, where its size made it want to settle down asymmetrically onto her ears.

            “There,” she choked out between giggles.  “How does it look?”

            Zev answered by knocking her backwards onto the bed, resuming their thwarted tryst in the hallway.  This time she was the one who kept her head, since the pressure of ill-fitting metal _against_ her head was enough to stop her from losing it.  “Zev,” she whispered between kisses.

            “Mm?”  He moved to grazing her neck.

            Maker, it was hard to think clearly when he did that.  “We... don’t want to be here when people start waking back up.”  Although they might have time enough, mightn’t they?  There was something exciting about not being sure....

            He slid his body up and down along hers, slow and teasing, but his kisses stopped.  “Ah, I fear you are right.  Only tonight, I want to see you in this crown and nothing else.”

            “Deal.”

 


	44. Ghost of a Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taliesin finally catches up with Zevran.

            She’d been a little quiet since they reached Denerim.  It wasn’t fear of the noble company they were keeping lately:  Zevran knew that even before she stood toe to toe with Loghain himself and told him with delightful calmness that he was a traitor.  If there had ever been any humble scraping in her nature, it was long gone.

            Of course her family was here, and her past.  But while aspects of her life were troubling, she had never spoken ill of her family – in fact he’d heard several fond references to her cousins in particular.  And yet she had yet to suggest going to the Alienage, or even to ask anyone about recent events there.

            Odd.  It could not be fear.  The only person she might have feared was long dead, by her own hand.  At a loss, Zevran combed his mind for analogies, reasons he might find himself uncomfortable in Antiva City even if he knew the Crows would not bother him there.

            It was not a productive line of thought, but it did prove to be an ironic one.

            They were walking through an obscure corner of the city in their usual formation:  Alistair by her left shoulder, Zevran to her right and a pace behind, Leliana another two paces back.  It was a tactical arrangement they had found themselves in so often that it was now an ingrained habit.  Sometimes it was Wynne who walked behind them rather than Leliana, if Taniva expected calamity, but that was the only variation.

            So it was Alistair whose shoulder Taniva grabbed as she stopped short in the middle of the dirt alley, glaring at the ground ahead as if troubled.  “Something isn’t right,” she said.

            It wasn’t.  Once she said it, Zevran recognized the unsettled bits of ground that implied that traps had been set, and the particular kind of quiet that had settled around them, and the desirability of this spot as a site for ambush – closed in, at the foot of a flight of steps.  He cursed himself for inattention and waited, hoped, for the lead assailant to make an appearance above them before striking.

            The voice was dismayingly familiar.  “So here you are, Zevran!  And with the Gray Warden after all.”

            Taliesin.  _Dog_ , as the Master had called him, Zevran’s Dog.  He knew these eyes, this sneer, this skin.  He knew the best and the worst they had to offer.

            He had not felt so hollow since his attempt to die fighting the Wardens.  He bit back the sigh he wanted to make, but his voice was soft rather than arrogant as it should have been.  “So they sent you, Taliesin.  Or did you volunteer?”

            “I had to see it for myself.”

            Yes.  Zevran knew this look.  It was the one Taliesin had taken to giving him when he was close to Rinna, near the end.  The one that called Zevran a prized possession in danger of being stolen.  The one that came just before blows and shouting about their arrangement, about protection, about debt.

            He could remember a time when he had considered that normal, the price that had to be paid for closeness.  There were good times, and mutual gain, and a ceiling to the violence between them, and that was what friends were.  What lovers were.

            But what he saw in Taliesin’s eyes now was a reflection of how much Taniva was changing him.  Taliesin’s possessive gaze inspired horror instead of longing, and the offer, when it came, was repugnant instead of alluring.

            “I know why you did it.  Come back with me, Zev.  I can fix it.  We’ll make up a story.  It can be like it was.”

            “Of course, I would have to be dead first,” Taniva interjected.  She did not move:  she would not, until peripheral vision and hearing told her where the archers were.  And – Zevran glanced sideways at her, and it made his chest hurt.  She was also waiting to see what Zevran planned to do.  She remembered Taliesin’s name, and Zevran’s admission of what Taliesin and Rinna had meant to him once.

            Then as now, it seemed to make her sad rather than angry, and this time he thought he understood that, because watching the flicker of doubt pass over her face was shockingly awful.

            But then it passed, and the question she whispered to him was not quite the one he was expecting.  “What do you want me to do, Zev?”

            The relief was as shocking as the pain had been, and almost as unpleasant in its own way.  “Hold, Taliesin,” he called up to his former partner.  “We should confer privately before we do anything… rash.”

            Taliesin snickered and took a slight ease that did not really diminish his threat – Zevran had seen both the expression and the gesture countless times.  The first stage of being open to his exotic pet.  Open, but not too open.  He was willing to believe that Zevran was coming with him, and that meant that he would not give the signal to fire until they had agreed.

            Zevran nodded and turned to face Taniva, absorbing the careworn loveliness of her face in case something went wrong and he did not see it again.  He stroked her cheek with his fingertips and leaned in to kiss her cheek, which Taliesin would see as a farewell, such as they had sometimes given to marks they had slept with first.

            “Thank you for this,” he whispered.  “He will not reach you.  I will never let it happen.”

            She grabbed his hand.  “Zev.  You’re not going to – ”

            “Ssh.  I will not disappoint you, my Warden.”  He looked over her shoulder at the others.  “Leliana,” he said quietly, “I suggest aiming at his left shoulder.  That is his dominant hand.  Alistair, if you tell her to aim at me instead, I will understand, but it will not be in your best interest, so try to resist the temptation.”

            “Do you always have to drag this part out, Zev?” Taliesin called.

            “Yes, yes, I’m coming!”  He climbed the stairs and approached – Maker, even the smell of him in his Antivan leather was familiar, and the damned stubble he couldn’t be bothered to either keep clean-shaven or grow into a real beard.  Everything about him had once been home and now wasn’t.

            “She’s cute,” Taliesin said.  “I thought that would be what was keeping you.  Can’t resist your own kind, I guess.  Well, say the word, and we’ll do this.”

            “You came to give me a chance, out of friendship, so I am doing the same for you.  Go back to Antiva and say you didn’t find me.”

            Taliesin frowned in disbelief, then laughed.  “You’re joking.  You know that can’t happen.  Now come on, don’t make me do all the work twice in a row.”  When he received no reply but a scowl, he looked more serious, and that possessive anger started to come back into his face.  “You and your sodding _elves_ , Zev.  I’ll buy you a dozen of them when we get home.  Don’t go soft on me.”

            _I’ll buy you a dozen._ It was the worst thing he could have said – even he must know that.  A parting jab, because only one of them would be walking away.  Zevran finally permitted himself a sigh.  “I’m sorry, my friend, but the answer is no.  And you should have stayed in Antiva.”

            Zevran was faster.  He had always been faster.  His blade was in Taliesin’s kidney before the man had his weapon loose, and although they continued to struggle for a few moments that seemed to stretch on for years, the fight was really already over long before Taniva reached the top of the stairs and cut Dog’s throat.

            They made short work of the others.  Taliesin had been the leader, the most skilled.

            Without really willing it, Zevran found himself walking back to where Taliesin had fallen and kneeling over him, studying his corpse.  Years of memory washed over him, time spent with the man who represented everything Zevran used to feel, before he recognized how little he felt.

            He noticed now that there was an arrow sticking out of the man’s left shoulder.  He laughed a little, and immediately he could feel how close the laugh was to becoming other things, and tried to seize hold and stop it.

            Taniva was there.  Before anything else, even before her ritual looting of the fallen, she came and knelt with him.  He touched her hand without looking up.  “And there it is,” he whispered.

            She put her arms around him and sat with her head touched against his until he could resummon the will to stand.

**  
**


	45. The Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plan to rescue Anora goes sideways, and Zevran and Sten mean to get some answers.

            Zevran had his daggers drawn on Queen Anora, and was pressing her still against the wall with an armbar to her throat.

            Everything had fallen apart after they had killed Arl Howe.  Once he was dead and the supposedly imprisoned Queen freed, there was suddenly a wealth of guards who were _not_ distracted by the strike going on outside.  Led by the woman who had stood by Loghain’s side when he met them at Eamon’s estate, they swept in and formed a wedge through the middle of the rescue party, and now Taniva and Alistair were gone.  Carried off, unconscious or –

            “If this was a trap,” he hissed into the Queen’s ear, “I will kill you here.”

            “Elf!” Sten roared over his shoulder, still keeping back the last of the soldiers from them.  “The mission!”

            “Is _pointless_ if we have lost the Wardens!” Zevran snarled back.

            “If they still live, having a hostage will be useful.”

            ...Yes.  That let a breeze into his hot head – Anora was still leverage whether or not she was innocent.  She was still _information._   “Bring her, then,” he snapped.  “I will cover.”  After a moment’s hesitation, he released her throat and leapt out to replace Sten as their rear guard.  She did not run, but she did let out an ignoble shriek as Sten slung her over his shoulder and carried her off in the direction of the nearest exit.

            There were not enough of them left to follow, not enough dances to work the frustration out of him before they escaped.  And yet it was not victory.  They had taken his Warden and _gone._

            He led them through the city by alleys he had found with her on happier excursions, stopping in one dark and lonesome enough for his purpose.  “Put her down for a moment, Sten.  I think we should have a talk with her without the Arl watching.”

            Sten nodded and unceremoniously dropped the woman in the dirt.  This time she made no noise, but scowled up at them.

            Zevran dropped to one knee and unsheathed one blade, twirling it in false idleness between them.  “Forgive my lack of manners,” he said quietly.  “If the Wardens were with us, they would insist that we treat you like royalty.  But they are not, you see.  So I am inclined to treat you like a traitor.”

            Her eyes narrowed.  “Against my father, or your Wardens?”

            “That is an interesting question, is it not?  You are nowhere near frightened enough to be innocent of both.  So you are going to tell me the extent of your guilt.  Let me make clear the importance of your answer.”  He shifted forward, raising his blade to her cheek.  “For every drop of blood she loses because of you, you are going to lose two.”

            Her temper betrayed her.  “She’s not _dead!_ ”  Realizing what she’d said, she fell abruptly silent again, her eyes wide.

            “Then it was a trap,” Sten frowned.  “You will tell us the rest.  I will prevent the elf from killing you if you are useful for negotiations, but I do not advise resistance.  You will still be as good a hostage if you are somewhat damaged.”

            Zev grinned, eyes still locked on Anora’s startled ones.  “Ah, Sten, you say such pretty things!  Why don’t you talk more?”

            “I never meant for – my father won’t kill them!  Don’t you see that?  He’ll just keep them out of the way until after the Landsmeet.  Do you think I _wanted_ him to win?  He’s used his reputation and his relationship to me to usurp the throne of Ferelden!  Just because it was a trap doesn’t mean I didn’t really want us to get _away._ ”

            His chest was only getting tighter.  “You are making excuses,” he rasped, tracing the point of his dagger along her cheekbone.  “And I am losing my patience.”

            “Take me to Arl Eamon and I will support your Wardens’ cause.  I swear that on my life.”  She looked at him with clear, canny eyes.  “I know that they are not dead.  He will have them at Fort Drakon.  Keep me as hostage until you know I have told the truth.”

            A bold woman.  She would have been a survivor even in the Antivan courts.

            “You will need a second to break into a fort,” Sten pointed out, “but you will also need someone to keep watch over our hostage.  We must take her – ”

            “To the Arl’s estate.  I know.”  Zev sighed and sheathed the knife.  “I will grant you the dignity of walking the rest of the way, Your Majesty, as long as you remember that we are both stronger and faster than you are.”

            Still, he left Sten to help her to her feet.  He needed to focus forward, to keep his mind clear.  An infiltration was a kind of operation he knew well, but actually _caring about the outcome_ had his heart beating too fast and his head too clouded with worry.  If his Warden lived, he would find her.  If not – if not, then he would kill everyone he found in Fort Drakon, and then Anora, and perhaps Arl Eamon for good measure, and then – no.  He would find her alive.

            “You and the Warden, then,” Anora mused behind him, and he frowned over his shoulder at her.  She smiled, suddenly a bit wistful.  “Trust me that I recognize the look of a war widow.  I promise you she is not dead yet.”

            “People promise many things when their lives are at stake.”

            “Queens do not.”

            Despite his foul mood, he snickered.  “No?  You would be surprised.  You still trust your _papa_ more than I do, I think.”

            At that she hung her head and fell silent until they reached Arl Eamon: but then she found her confidence again, and described the situation to the Arl – minus her own early complicity in the plan, of course.  He would definitely want Sten keeping an eye on her.  Morrigan as well, he thought, as she would be equally difficult to sway.

            That left the question of who to take with him to the fort, and he pondered it as he went to find the others.  He agreed with Sten’s assessment, but he was going to need stealth – so that was Shale out of the question immediately.  A healer would be of limited use.  Leliana might be better, if he could think of a story for them....

            By chance, she was the one speaking when he came into the room.  Her face was scrunched up in disgust, as were the other women’s, as Oghren scratched at his beard and laughed.

            “By the Maker, Oghren,” she was saying, “you smell like a _circus._ ”

            ...Yes.

 


	46. Not the Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Taniva knocked senseless, Alistair is in charge of either escaping or preparing for rescue. He doesn't do well with being left in charge.

            Being locked into a private cell with a lovely woman wearing nothing but her smallclothes sounded more enticing than it really was.  Alistair paced back and forth along the back wall to keep himself from babbling at the unconscious body.

            _Wake up, Tan.  You want to be awake when they come to torture us, don’t you?  Of course you do.  Come on, I can’t get the door open without you.  You’re the one who knows about locks, not me.  And won’t you feel silly if it’s some measly guard who takes you down, after all those darkspawn?  Maker’s breath, Tan!  Don’t you remember how bad I get when I don’t know if you’re all right?  Can’t you stop being_ selfish _for a moment and get up?_

            Oh, she could!  He felt oddly guilty about the thought he’d ended his rant on as she finally stirred and struggled to her feet.

            “Thank the Maker, you’re awake.  I – ”  But it was too soon to celebrate:  as she turned toward him, her eyes rolled back in her head, and he could see her legs starting to buckle.  He lunged forward and grabbed her by the shoulders, leading her slowly back down to the floor.  “Right, then.  Let’s just sit down for now, shall we?  No need to stand up yet.  Plenty of time.”

            She slumped forward into him, and he could see the swollen lump on the back of her head.  Not good at all.  Bad, in fact.  Bad enough that it took him several moments to pause from wondering whether she’d get much better without help, and realize that he was now _holding_ a lovely woman wearing nothing but her smallclothes.  It was almost equally alarming.  Her skin was warm and soft, and – and nothing.  She’d made it very clear from the first that their friendship was a platonic one.  She’d made a thousand comments about how he reminded her of her cousins.  No, this was a world that had always been closed to him, and probably always would be.

            She whimpered a little, squeezed his shoulders.  “Where am I?”

            “A prison cell somewhere in Denerim.”

            Her whole body tensed.  “I’ll kill him,” she snarled.

            Did she mean Loghain?  “It’s a good thought, but there are going to be some intermediate steps before we can get to that.”

            She was digging her nails tighter and tighter into his shoulders, and it was starting to hurt.  “Don’t panic.  Wait for the opening.  They’ll come to split us up.  They take Shianni first.  Don’t let them take Shianni.”

            “Umm… Taniva?”  She lifted her head slowly, as if it were too heavy, and her eyes were clouded over.  “Taniva,” he repeated quietly.  “I don’t know what you’re seeing right now, but this is Alistair.  Do you… remember me?  We’re Gray Wardens.”

            “The Wardens.”  She closed her eyes for a few seconds and opened them again.  “Yes.  Then I already killed him.  I killed all of them.”

            “That sounds likely enough.  You’ve killed a lot of things.”

            The tension ebbed out of her.  “I killed them like dogs, Shianni.”  She closed her eyes again and rested her head on his shoulder.

            “Ah… yes.  I’m sure you did.  But we were here about Queen Anora.  Do you remember Queen Anora?”

            He could practically feel her concentrating.  “Howe.  He’s the new Arl.”

            “That’s right.  At least he _was,_ before you cut his throat.  I’m afraid we’ve been captured.  The others might have made it out, although I really don’t know for certain.”

            “Oh!  Well.  How hard is the lock?”  She tried to rise to her feet, and immediately collapsed again, this time falling into him backwards.  He put his arms around her waist to keep her still, and she struggled for a few seconds before relaxing.

            “I don’t think you’re ready to stand up yet, Tan,” he murmured.  “Take it easy.”

            By way of agreement she groaned and leaned back against him, resting from her exertions, face turned toward his neck.  He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin.

            Platonic.  He hated his life sometimes.

            After another few minutes, she groaned as if waking up from a nap, nestled a little into the side of his throat – Andraste’s _knickers,_ but he hated his life – and then pulled back a bit and looked at him, eyes not quite focused but a bit clearer than they had been before.  “Oh,” she muttered, nonchalant.  “It’s you, Alistair.”

            “It is.  It is me.  How do you feel?”

            Her answer was unsurprising.  “My head hurts.  I don’t – I don’t feel quite right.”  She frowned.

            “Take it slowly,” he warned her.  “You’ve already fallen down twice trying to get up before you were ready.”

            “Oh.”  Happily, she took his advice and did not try again.  “Is it just the two of us?  Where is Zevran?”

            Yes.  _Hated._   “I don’t know.”

            But the real problem now was that there were footsteps ringing through the hall.  If it was someone coming for them, then Alistair was the only one fit to protect them; but first he would have to extricate himself from Taniva without having her collapse into the stone floor, perhaps doing herself even more damage.

            The colors he could see moving between the bars of their cell were much too garish to belong to a guard.  Loghain was not given to extravagant dress, so who –

            Their inhuman proportions, the faint smell of ale, and a whispered “Be _quiet,_ Oghren!” gave it away.  What was it Zevran had told them once?  That speaking of the Crows drew them to appear?  Creepy.

            There had to be a story behind this.  Zevran and Oghren were both ridiculously costumed, rainbow-colored with ludicrous sleeves and shoes.  Zevran might have passed for an acrobat:  Oghren as… well, the Maker only knew what Oghren was supposed to be, other than disturbing.  The spatters of blood on both their outfits probably detracted from the original effect, of course.

            The important thing was that they had a key.

            “Ah, there you are, my dear Warden!” Zevran beamed as the door swung open.  “Did you miss me?”

            Her whole body twisted toward the voice like a sunflower toward the sun, but when she saw him, she leaned back against Alistair slightly, frowning.  “Um… Alistair…?”

            “No, Tan, I’m seeing the same thing you are.”

            “Wasn’t my idea,” Oghren mumbled.  “But it got the job done.”

            By now Zevran had noticed the murkiness in Taniva’s stare, and knelt to study it, his face gone serious.  “It’s a bad head injury,” Alistair told him over her shoulder.  “We should get her to Wynne as quickly as we can.”

            Zevran carefully pulled her to her feet, chiding her as he placed her arms around him.  “This talent you have for getting into trouble.  I can’t leave you alone for one second, can I?”

            “I could have opened that lock,” she muttered, but she hugged his waist as he positioned them to walk.  “Easy.”

            “Of course you could have.  But think of the fun I had rescuing a pretty girl.  That is very dashing and attractive, yes?”

            “Yes,” she grinned.

            “I know we’re in a hurry,” Alistair interrupted, “but – are we going to just walk out like this?  Two bloody circus men and two half-naked people?  Maybe we should find some clothes.”

            Zevran smirked over his shoulder at Alistair.  “Oh, sure.  One good thing about today, and you want to spoil it for me.  Fine, we will look for clothes.”

            “You could have these off me,” Oghren offered.

            “Ummmm no.”

            Alistair followed their lead.  Future king or no, it was what he was good at.

**  
**


	47. Buy This Place and Tear It Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva finally comes home to the Alienage...and finds visitors from Tevinter, and reminders of her frustrations with her father.

            With their first step into the Alienage, Zevran could see Taniva’s face beginning to harden.  By the time they passed the first cluster of beggars even Alistair could see it.  “Not glad to be home, then?” he asked her.

            She stopped and stared off into the tangle of ramshackle buildings.  “It’s so small,” she muttered.  “So dirty.”  Her shoulders tensed; it was almost like being back in the Gauntlet, watching the Guardian confront her with memories of Shianni.

            Alistair had not heard that part of the story afterward, as Zevran had; nor, as far as the elf knew, much else about her life in Denerim at all.  “It’s not so bad,” the Warden said, as cheerily as he could.  “Are we going to meet your family while we’re here?  You’ve met mine.  And, um, I’m sorry.  About that.  But I’m sure this would be better.”

            “Yes, Alistair,” she said, but her voice was flat.  “You’re going to meet them.  The house is right here.”  She waved toward it – not far from the gate.  Even on the outside, it was a tiny, shabby thing, as all the houses were.  The way they were built was a bit different, and the smells, and the rhythm of the language playing through the narrow streets, but in all it was not that unlike the slums of Zevran’s youth.

            He took her hand:  she squeezed it, but then let it drop as she approached the door and let herself in.  Alistair and Zevran followed silently into the dim little space, which smelled faintly of mildew from the recent rain. 

            “Taniva!”  The young elf who rose to meet them was as pale as she was, his hair auburn rather than dark.  He approached with a smile, but no fire, and hugged her modestly.  “I never thought we’d see you again.”

            She let go of him with one arm so that she could turn toward her companions.  She still did not seem entirely herself, but at least she seemed a bit more relaxed.  “This is my cousin Soris,” she told them.  “Soris, that’s Alistair, and that’s Zevran.  So – where is everybody?”

            His expression soured a little.  “Well.  Valora and Shianni are probably out in the square.  We… we don’t know where your father is.  Maybe with the healers.”

            “He’s sick?”  The tension was back in Taniva’s face, frustration and alarm.  “What do you mean you don’t _know_ where he is?  Have you told the Keeper?”

            Soris looked ill.  “He’s gone too.”  He drew back and shook his head at Taniva.  “You should talk to Shianni.  It’ll be easy to find her; she’s, ah… really taken to making her presence known, lately.”

            Her voice was a tight, strangled thing.  “All right.  I will go and find Shianni, and we will visit later.”

            Zevran watched her mood continue to darken as they made toward the great tree in the center of the community:  it was nearly as cheery as descending into the Deep Roads.  Alistair made another attempt at lightness.  “That tree is amazing!  It’s considered the heart of the Alienage, in a way, isn’t it?”

            “Not just in a way; we mean it pretty literally.  It’s called the _vhenadahl_.  It is lovely, isn’t it?”  She stopped for a moment and looked up at it, rueful.  “You’d think it meant that we were strong.”

            Zevran frowned.  He recognized this response:  rage and pain were welling up in her, and she was trying to smash them down instead of flowing through and past them.  It would never work.  He took her hand again, this time placing his other hand at her waist.  “We can take a moment if you like, my Warden,” he said quietly into her ear.

            But again, she gave his hand a token squeeze and then shrugged him off.  “No, we can’t.  Not right now.”  With that, she strode off toward the gathering throng at the opposite end of the square, where there seemed to be some sort of three-way standoff between a cluster of elves, one of humans gathered around a doorway, and one red-haired elf woman with a bow.

            The last stopped in mid-tirade and leapt upon the Warden with much more enthusiasm than Soris had.  “ _Tan!_   Maker’s breath!  You look so wonderful!”

            “I am going to guess that this is Shianni, then?”  said Zevran, putting on a polite smile to mask his other thoughts.  “It is an honor.  Clearly beauty runs in your family.”

            Shianni snickered.  “Yours too, right next to the _smooth._ ”

            Even Taniva laughed a little, and Zevran watched the two women relax into each other, his own smile becoming more genuine.  “And now I am imagining a whole long line of gorgeous, fiery women.  It makes me very happy.”

            “This would be Zevran,” Taniva purred.  “And that is Alistair.”  The human responded to his name with a little wave, also cheered by this happier greeting although clearly out of place.

            Taniva leaned in and whispered something to her cousin, who nodded and tightened her embrace for just a moment.  Zevran could read Shianni’s lips, as the one faced toward him.  _Yes, I’m well.  Thank you.  It’s okay, I understood._   He stood by politely, waiting, since he understood too.  It was the thing Shianni said aloud that took him by surprise.

            “So much has happened since your wedding.”

            His growing capacity for emotional pain was always an unpleasant shock, and this one threatened to knock him to the ground.  His gaze shifted toward Taniva alone, and for a moment she looked alien to him.  “So,” he managed to say at last.  “You have a secretive side after all.”

            She frowned, knowing his thought.  She saw him too well, too deeply.  He was much too open to her.  “The wedding never actually took place.”

            “You never told me you were _engaged!_ ” Alistair piped in, his tone either quite oblivious to the mood shift or willfully trying to shift it back toward good cheer.  “What happened?”

            No, then.  She had never told him any of the story.

            She and Shianni exchanged a knowing glance, and then Taniva waved a hand with false humor.  “Oh, you know.  Kidnapping, rape, murder.  We got the wrong cake.  It was a disaster!”

            Alistair started to laugh and then stopped himself, clearly struggling with whether her answer was a joke or not, and if it was true, how to respond.

            Still, for Zevran’s needs it was not a complete answer; but he did not want to press for more in front of the others.  “Well.  I am sure you looked amazing.”

            She frowned again, and kissed Shianni lightly on the cheek.  “Can I just have a minute?”

            “Of course,” her cousin said.

            Taniva grabbed Zevran by the arm and led him a few paces away.  “Zev, I didn’t tell you because it was the least interesting part of the story.  I didn’t love him, you know.  I’d only met him that day.  Arranged marriage.”

            He was almost ashamed of how much easier this information made it to breathe.  He put his arms around her waist and sighed into her hair.  “Arranged marriage?  I thought that happened mostly to human nobles.”

            “Human nobles and Alienage elves.  I don’t know why.  _Keeping the old ways,_ they call it.  So then someone comes from the Chantry to hold the ritual.  All _very_ ancient elven.”

            He laughed.  “Oh yes.  I know the Dalish can’t say enough good things about the Chantry.  So, did you have any impression of this poor fellow at all?”

            “He seemed nice enough.  Harmless, like everyone else except my mother.”

            He smiled at her.  “You know, when you say _harmless_ you look like you are eating something sour.”

            “I am.  Anyway, he’d be harmless to you now, regardless.  He died in the fight with Vaughan’s guards.”  She shrugged and looked into his eyes with a mirthless little laugh.  “I don’t miss him.  I don’t even know if I’m _sorry_ about him.  Isn’t that awful?”

            “We have discussed this before, my Warden.  I would be the last one to tell you to be _sorry._ Why should you be?  You were waiting for a dashing Antivan Crow to sweep into your life anyway, were you not?”

She giggled at him.  He had a gift for that.  “Of course I was.” 

He stroked her hair and exhaled loudly, covering the trail of their mutual weakness by retreating back to humor.  “So!  With a pile of dead lovers and suitors left in our wake, you and I go forward.  Back to work with us, yes?”

            Shianni was smirking at them when they returned.  “You always were the one with the luck, Tan.”

            With that, the conversation moved on to business.  Since the wedding incident there had been increasing unrest – met, of course, with even less sympathy than usual from the Arl of Denerim.  Recently, this problem had been compounded by a plague, which was assumed to be related to the coming Blight.  A group of Tevinter healers had come with promises of treatment, but although elves still thronged to their hospice for help, Shianni insisted that those who went in were not cured.  In fact, they never came out at all.

            “Some of them weren’t even sick,” she said.  “I’m starting to wonder if it really was even plague.”

            The plan did not take long to form.  Taniva and Zevran worked their way toward the front of the crowd, and then she collapsed into his arms, coughing.  He cast up as pathetic a gaze toward the guards as he could manage.  “Please.  She is so sick.”

            The guards looked them up and down quickly, in a way that Zevran suspected was not really about judging sickness.  Then they nodded and urged both elves up the steps into the building.  The additional guards they had to kill as soon as the door closed behind them made Zevran feel justified in his theory.

            The other elves inside were in cages.

            They retrieved Alistair and followed the course through which the previous elves had been forced, Taniva growing more dour and violent at each step.  The trail led back through an apartment building – mysteriously empty – and into a warehouse full of mercenaries. 

            Strangely, when they reached the room in which the other stolen elves were caged and confronted the leader of the slavers, Taniva slumped forward and invited him to plead his case.  He offered them evidence that he had acted with Loghain’s written consent to take slaves from the Alienage.  In exchange, he would leave – taking those he had already collected with him.

            The suggestion hung between them for a moment, wrapped in silence.  Zevran felt hot in the face.  This was impossible.  She could not – no.  Even _he_ would not do such a thing.  And yet she was not answering.

            “Will you look them in the eyes and tell them you agreed?” he hissed.

            She looked over her shoulder at him – hollow.  She was not considering:  something in her had gone beyond anger and shut down entirely.  He bit his tongue and wished he had not spoken.

            “I have a counter-offer,” she said quietly, turning back toward the foreign mage.  “I will kill you and take the papers from your corpse.”

            And then she was sweeping down through his archers and personal guards with unholy speed, and it took Zevran and Alistair together to keep up with her body count.  He would have found it beautiful if he had not just seen her eyes.

            Alone and on his knees, the mage sweetened his bargain.  He was a blood mage – of course, weren’t they all – and in exchange for his life, he could take the lives of his prisoners and use them to make Taniva stronger.

            She remained quiet and blank-faced.  “I see.  I would not let you have them as slaves, but you think that I would let you kill them.  You are a credit to mages, _shems,_ and Tevinter.”  With that, she slit his throat and stood over him, silently watching him bleed out.

            No one spoke.  A long time seemed to pass before she bent down to search him.  When she rose, she was brandishing the papers in one hand and a key in the other.  Without a word, she walked to one of the cages and opened its door.  She turned and handed the key to Alistair:  he shrank back from her withering look, and went silently to free the others.

            One man lingered as the others came out of confinement.  Middle-aged, Zevran thought, but worn beyond his years.  Taniva followed the bars back toward him, and they regarded each other.  His face crumpled, and he raised a hand to the bar in front of him.  “Baby girl,” he said.

            “Go home, daddy.”

            “You saved us.  You’re a hero.  If… if your mother could see you.”  He could barely speak.

            Neither could she.  _“Go home.”_

            He followed the others; by now, those Alistair had freed were leaving as well.  Zevran watched Taniva as she continued to stand facing the spot where her father had been, silent and motionless.  He grabbed Alistair by the arm as he came near and pulled him close.  “I think you should go as well.  She is going to need a moment.”

            “But you’re staying,” Alistair murmured, a statement rather than a question:  he was finally learning.  Zevran nodded.  “Then I want her to feel better when you come out.”  With one more concerned glance at Taniva, Alistair left with the elves.

            Zevran stayed in place, waiting.

            When it had been quiet for a minute, she stumbled toward the body of one of the archers and took up his bow.  He could hear her breath quickening as she surged back toward the cage and started beating against it with all her strength.  The bowstring snapped and flailed, without recoiling into her eyes by the Maker’s grace, and the wood of the bars themselves began to crack, and she went on, screaming.  “ _Why?_   Why are you all so weak and pathetic and _useless?_ ”

            When she could no longer swing her weapon hard enough for her liking, she threw it at the wall and fell to her knees, roaring at the floor beneath her.  Only when that had stopped did Zevran come and kneel beside her.

            She felt his approach without looking up.  “I should never have come back.  I never wanted to come back.”

            “Then no one would have saved them.”

            Her voice was half-choked and uneven.  “Maybe it would have served them right.  Maybe Morrigan has a point about that.”

            “Hmm.  You are sure you want to agree with Morrigan about something?”

            She started to shake.  “He never wanted me to learn to fight.  He told me to hide it from Nelaros until after we were married.  I was supposed to think that defending myself was _shameful._   Like I should have just – after everything – and I – ”  She reared up, and he could see her struggling not to cry.

            He moved a little closer to her and took her by the shoulders.  “Don’t fight it,” he whispered.  “You will only make it worse.  Let it go through.”

            “I can’t.  I can’t be that weak.”

            “ _Weak_ is not a word anyone would use to describe you.”  He leaned his head against hers.  “Come, now.  You have carried this a long way by yourself.  Let me take a little.”

            She curled into him and sobbed, clutching at his chest.

**  
**


	48. A Final Reckoning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran and Alistair finally reach an understanding.

            “Is there another cup, perhaps?”

            Alistair looked up in surprise at Zevran, and after a short hesitation, pushed out a chair with his foot and a goblet with his hand.  “Not with Taniva this evening?”

            Zevran glanced away as he took his seat.  “She’s, ah, not here.  You didn’t see her leave, I take it?  So you… don’t know where she is either.”

            _Either._   That was interesting.  “Me?  No.  Perhaps she went back to visit the Alienage.”  He poured wine for the elf, then refreshed his own drink.  Should he – yes, he had enough of a buzz going to ask the question.  “So, that, ah, _joke_ she told us when we met Shianni.”

            Zevran smirked, nodded, took his first sip.  “Yes.  That was true.  It is not my place to say more than that.”

            Alistair grimaced:  he did not really need to be told more.  Taniva remained an unmarried and extremely defensive woman, and given everyone’s avoidance of naming the groom, he was likely dead.  _Kidnapping, rape, murder.  We got the wrong cake._   He took a large gulp of the wine, trying to still the pieces falling together in his head.  “I’m guessing it was a human?  Perhaps a nobleman?”

            Zevran seemed to ponder for a moment before he gave another nod, a slight one.  “Dead before either of us knew her.  You need not seek him out.”

            “She never told me.”  He rubbed his forehead.  “By the Maker, no wonder it was so hard to get her to trust me.”

            “She does now.  Now she merely protects you.”  Zevran smiled at his quizzical expression.  “You are very _pure_ for a grown man, Alistair.  Besides, the very deep scars one tends to hide rather than boast about.”

            “In humor, for example?  Prolonged discussions of Wynne’s bosom?”

            “For example.”

            They both drank quietly for a few minutes.  Zevran poured for them both again, and his question was quiet, deceptively casual.  “Do you ever worry about where this will end?”

            “The Blight?  Only all the time.”

            “That is not quite what I mean.  One learns in the Crows to be philosophical about death and danger, of course, and I enjoy the fight as much as anyone.  The best one can hope for oneself is to die well, but – ”

            Alistair slammed down his cup more loudly than he meant to and stared into Zevran’s eyes.  “But you’re thinking about Taniva.”

            Yes, a flicker of vulnerability and alarm in the elf’s face.  Alistair raised his eyebrows, shocked.  Although they’d learned to be decent to each other and Alistair had grown resigned to Taniva’s ongoing attachment to the assassin, he had never quite decided if Zevran really did have a heart in his chest somewhere.  To suddenly catch a glimpse of it now was alarming in a way.  Again, pieces and contexts shifted and fell into place in Alistair’s head, and this time – yes, it really was love between the two elves, no matter how many times he had pretended in his head that it wasn’t.

            Just his luck that he’d had just enough wine to think _more_ clearly rather than less.

            Zevran drank, and then held the cup in both his hands, staring into it.  “Well.  After all.  I saw the thing in the Deep Roads, Alistair.  The mother of all dragons.  And everyone is so particular about how the _Gray Wardens_ must defeat the archdemon.  There are only two of you.”

            “Three!  We did find Riordan.  That makes all the difference, doesn’t it?”

            “Not really, no.”

            “I don’t want to see her hurt either, Zev.”  He did not say _killed_ :  neither of them wanted to hear that out loud.  “All we can do is agree to do our best not to let it happen.”

            Zevran snickered.  “I thought we had agreed to that already.  That is what keeps this little band of misfits together, is it not?”

            “You know what I mean.”

            “Yes, I know what you mean.”  They clinked their cups together and returned to drinking.

**  
**


	49. Superstition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An earring, a knife, and more evidence that Zevran is, as the beta once put it, "a fishwife."

            If she kept brushing her hair for long enough, surely it would clear her head.

            On the other hand, perhaps she ought to answer the knock at her door.  It was still a little strange to her to have a _door_ again, and stranger that it was to a room that was all her own.  Lonely, actually, in a way.

            “Zevran?  You… you knocked.”

            He looked strangely uncertain.  “You were gone earlier,” he said, as if that was an explanation.  His eyes wandered down her body.  “I have never seen you in a dress before.”

            “Yes, well.  I promised Shianni I’d come and have dinner with them.  I’ve just gotten back.”

            “Ah, and you went by yourself.”  His smile was the self-deprecating one, and there may also have been a flicker of hurt or regret in it.  “I would have gone with you.  But I suppose I am not a man one takes to dinner with one’s family.”

            “You’re not the one I would have been ashamed of, Zev.”  But when she leaned in to kiss him, he turned his head just enough to make her miss.  “I mean it.  I’m… it’s very complicated, me and my family.  You would not have enjoyed it.”

            “I would have gone anyway.”  His eyes stayed cast downward, and he took her hands.  “But I believed you the first time, my Warden.”

            “Good.”  Another attempt to kiss him, and another deflection.  It was starting to hurt her feelings.  “Then what is this?”

            He pushed her away a little.  “That is not _always_ the only thing I want, you know.  I am not a who-”  He cut the word short, but she knew perfectly well what it would have been.

            “Of course I know that!”  She crossed her arms.  “You can’t still think I don’t know that!  What is this about?  Why are you angry with me?”

            “Not angry.  I – ”  He sighed and raised a hand to his head.  “I am sorry.  I know I am being childish.  I… I have something on my mind, that is all.”

            A chill ran through her body.  _You’re leaving.  Taliesin is dead, and there is this moment when it will be easier to disappear completely, and you’re leaving._   She tightened her arms around herself and bit her lip.

            Certainly he was working toward something deep in himself:  he talked more and more with his hands, and his eyes were anywhere but looking into hers.  “I am an _assassin._   I have always been taught to take any moment of pleasure where I could find it, and expect nothing else.  I thought that was what we were going to be at first, a pleasant diversion.  But.  I.”  A pause and a drop of pitch.  “Want more than that now.”

            She swayed a little, loosened.  “You’re _not_ leaving.”

            His eyes widened.  “Were you about to send me away?”

            “No, no.  I’m trying to understand what you’re saying.”

            “I don’t know.  I don’t know what I’m saying.  Ever since you first took me into your tent I have been nothing but confused.  Everything I know says that what I feel is wrong, and yet – ”  He put his arms around her despite the hesitation in his own face.

            “Zev.”  She took his face in her hands and moved it until his eyes met hers.  “Do you love me?  Is that what you want to say?”

            He looked miserable.  “How would I even know?” he whispered.  “I was born in a brothel.  I have never heard anyone use that word and mean it.  Better to ask me what a griffin looks like.”  He took a deep breath.  “I want to be with you.  I want there to be some kind of future for us.  Something… I don’t know.”

            Such a sweet thought after her moment of worry made her feel almost faint – as well as slightly annoyed with herself for doubting him.  She traced her fingertips slowly down his jaw, and his eyes rolled shut.  “I want that too,” she said.

            Now he looked relieved as well, and smiled a little.  “Do you?  I wasn’t sure.  I didn’t want to hope for too much.”

            She brushed her chin against his.  “Does this mean I can kiss you now?”

            He almost took the invitation, but hesitated.  “In a moment.  I also never thanked you for… Taliesin.  And all the things you have given me.  I want to give you something.”  He withdrew one hand from her waist, and after a moment, pressed something small and hard into her hand.  A thin hoop earring, studded with gems.

            “That’s beautiful.”

            “It belonged to my first target,” he explained, and knowing he would not see that as disconcerting, she simply let him continue.  “I took it to mark the occasion.  And because I thought it was beautiful.  It has meant a great deal to me, but so have – anyway, I would like you to have it.”

            A piece of himself, of his past.  And a token she could have close to her, _in_ her, all the time.  It was so perfect.

            Of course, it was so perfect that it made him nervous to do something so tender.  “You can do whatever you like with it.  Wear it.  Or sell it, it doesn’t matter.  I just wanted to give it to you.”

            She put it in her ear, grinning at his defensiveness, so familiar to her that it was becoming more dear than vexing, most of the time.  “I have something for you too, you know.”

            “Again?  You are a bottomless well of gifts, you know.  It is almost disconcerting.”

            “Yeah, well, this is different.”  She withdrew to her dresser and came back with the dagger her father had given her.  “I’d prefer you had this.”

            Zevran roared in humorous indignation.  “Ah, woman!  Why do you always do this to me?  It’s a _knife!”_

            “Yes, it is.  And?”

            He grabbed her rather than the dagger.  “Everything you give me is bad luck!  Gloves, boots, knives.  These are all for endings, not beginnings.”

            “Oh.”  She giggled.  “I don’t know Antivan customs.  The gloves and boots were because I thought you would like them, because they would remind you of good things.  As for this, well.”  She pressed the hilt into his hand.  “This was my mother’s best dagger.  She taught me everything – she was the only one who _would_ teach me anything.  My father only just now thought to give it to me.”

            “And you want me to have it.”  He weighed it in his hand.  “You are much too kind to me, my Warden.”

            “That’s how these things work among the healthy people.”

            “Ah.”  He was finally beginning to relax back into his usual demeanor.  “Still, for me to accept such a gift, we are going to have to do something to nullify the bad luck.  This is very important.”

            “Of course.”  But his smile was the playful one, so that was the smile she gave him back.  “What do we have to do?”

He pulled at her earlobe gently with his teeth.  “First, we are going to have to get you out of this dress.”

 

**  
**


	50. The Price of Stubbornness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taniva has rejected Morrigan's offer. Someone is going to have to give their life to take the Archdemon's.

I see now that I should have taken Morrigan’s offer.

            It’s just that these demons and blood mages – somehow they don’t see into me like they do into others.  They always offer the wrong things for the wrong price.  The sloth demon in the Tower put me in some sterile box with Duncan, when I should have had a Vaughan to kill over and over again, forever.  That fool Tevinter offered me money and then power for the lives of my own people, my father among them.

            Morrigan appealed to my pride and my interest in the future of Ferelden.  _If he dies, he will overshadow you_ , she said, as if there were one thing I have ever done in my life for the glory.  No – it has always been necessity that compelled me, and it is necessity that tells me that Alistair or I might have to die.  This was not news to me in the most basic sense, and to the contrary, I knew, I know, that Morrigan’s ritual may well have undone all the good we hope to do.  I had just gone to great effort to put Alistair on the throne, and she was asking me give the archdemon we were supposed to destroy a new life _as Alistair’s firstborn._

            Then she invoked Zevran.  She purred his name at me, sure that would bring me to her way of thinking.  As if she had never seen my temper, as if she was blissfully unaware that his name on her lips made me feel more like gutting her than helping her seduce Alistair.  In fact there was no better way to steel me to my task. 

            I told myself all sorts of pretty lies throughout the night, keeping myself secure in my decision.  She was probably lying anyway, and taking her offer would have done no good.  Riordan would probably be there to take the killing blow.  If not, well, Zevran would survive my loss.  He could survive anything, he’d proven it time and again.  Who knew how deep his feelings really went for me, anyway?  _He_ didn’t even know:  he’d told me as much.

            If anything, at that point, I feared the most that Alistair and I would both live.  I’d promised to stay with Alistair when he was king, because he looked so shaken and lost when he asked me.  I was not convinced that Zev would stay in Denerim with me, even with Taliesin dead.  He would want to keep moving, and I would not be free to move with him.  I was already mourning his loss, already bracing myself to lose him no matter what happened.

            But at the gates, Riordan told me we would stand the best chance divided, not together, and told me to choose teams.  I told myself it was practical that I took Alistair and Zev with me.  Two Wardens doubled our chances against the archdemon, and Zev was well-proven in battle.  The truth was that I had grown accustomed to fighting alongside them at my left and right hand, and the truth about _that_ was that they were simply the people I wanted with me, period.

            As we all said what would likely be our goodbyes to each other in front of the gate, Zev came to me and held me as tight as he could with both of us in armor, and told me what a relief it was, how right it was, that I let him come and fight beside me.  That he would follow me into the Black City itself.

            That has haunted every bloody step toward this tower, and now that I stand watching this enormous dragon flail and twitch, I realize what I have really done.

            I have brought my lover and my best friend to watch me die.

            I feel wretched and vicious, and it sucks the strength out of my limbs, so instead of charging forward to end this blasted war I stand perfectly still, frozen inside my awful private moment of awareness.  I should have left them both at the gates, and brought people who would have cared less about me.  I should not have brought my human brother, one of the softest-hearted people I have ever known.  I should not have brought the man who has had to unravel a lifetime of pain and self-preservation to allow himself to love me, just to watch me be destroyed.

            It _will_ hurt them.  I can see that, now that Morrigan is not here for me to raise my hackles against.  It will hurt them forever.

            I am shaken out of my thoughts by Alistair’s hand on my shoulder.  “Let me,” he says, and it is surprising how well his quiet voice carries over the roar of battle on the other side of the tower, beyond the dragon.  “Let me make the blow.  Please.”

            “You’re to be king,” I protest, and it comes out in a sort of whine. 

            “That was never what I wanted,” he says, and that is no less than the truth.  “Anora can do without me.  Please.  I – you are the one who needs to live.  You’re the one who will… have something left, when I am gone.  Let me do it.”

            This is truth as well.  If he outlives me, he will go to be king with a queen he will never trust, and be miserable.  If I outlive him, I will wander Ferelden with my reformed assassin, and be happy.

            All my life I have been pretending to be strong, but I am weak.  I can hear Wynne’s whole speech replaying in my head, about how love is selfish, and it is.  I am.  I can lose one of the men dearest to me, or both.  I can do what’s right for Ferelden, or what’s right for Zevran.  For myself.

            And I choose Zev. 

            I am grateful and grieving and disgusted with myself, and I throw my arms around my fellow Warden, my first companion in this long, tiring journey, weeping.  “I will never forget you, Alistair.”

            “Thank you,” he whispers.  They are his last words. 

 


	51. Do Not Swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final battle from Zevran's perspective.

            Battle is a dance of openings.  Slash across the throat.  Lean right, parry, riposte.  Two steps forward, a thrust to the exposed kidney.  More coming, spin left, deflect.  Slice at the eyes.  Roll away from the ogre, cut at its tendons as it passes.

            Keep your mouth shut, so that the blood cannot splash into it.  Ignore the pierced shoulder and the tear in the thigh – ah, no, not any more.  I feel Wynne’s power surge through me again, knitting shut the wounds.  I wish that I could make her understand that healing me during a fight is as disruptive as it is useful:  it breaks the natural cycle of pain into numbness and aches that return only with peace, the cycle my body is trained to expect.  The feelings that should move through me in one long wave are shattered into shrapnel, stuttering through my nerves at random.  I would almost prefer the times when she forgets me until last and I fall, too hurt to go on until the fight is won, except that at those times I leave the others exposed.

            And of course, the fun of killing creatures no one will ever mourn cannot be denied.  It is one of the reasons that failing to assassinate the Gray Wardens is the best thing that ever happened to me.

            I am far away from them on the battlefield, swept off into the clash between the armies and the darkspawn.  I had intended to stay closer, to keep them away from my Warden while she and Alistair focused on the archdemon, which she insists only they can bring down.  I do not argue:  I do not claim expertise on this kind of thing.  There are plenty of things for me to kill, in any case.  But I have been drawn off to the opposite side of the tower.

            Even so, I can hear the crash when the great dragon collapses onto the floor, heaving in agony.

            I learn that even darkspawn can lose morale at such a time.  The unit we are fighting falters, and they turn, and a wail goes up among them.  Their god is dying.  Well and good, at first:  this only makes them easier to cut down, and I begin to open a path between me and where Taniva must be.

            But there, everything has stopped.  I can see the dragon gasping, twitching, not yet quite dead – but I can also see Alistair and my Warden, and they do not approach it.  They face each other, perhaps talking.  What would they talk about now?  What makes this a good time to stop and have a discussion?

            She throws her arms around him, and for one second I am angry.  It is stupid, I know.  Ironic, given how very many arms have been around me in my short lifetime – but those are not recent, those are not other members of our little family.

            In the next second, I recognize it for what it is.  Because I have seen enough moments of despair, my own and not my own, and because I have seen enough demons explode when they die.

            They expect that in dealing the death blow, they will also destroy themselves.

            Good that I have opened the way.  I run toward the archdemon, determined to make the lethal cut myself, but Alistair arrives ahead of me.  Leaps with all his strength toward the throat, as if to make sure it will go deep enough, or to make sure that I cannot get there in time.  Drives his sword down the length of its neck, bathed in its dark blood.

            If they are right, it is too late for him.  I correct my course, toward the sweet darkling who led us here, who now stands staring as if she has been frozen in place.  I am running too fast to stop when I reach her, but what I want is for her to move.  I throw her backward – _we_ are propelled forward, by more force than mine, and there is screeching and blinding light.

            And then, for a moment, nothing.

            We are huddled against some remnant of wall.  Perhaps my left leg is broken.  I will have to ask Wynne, if she is alive.  She probably is:  that spirit, or whatever it is.  I am draped over this little Alienage girl who has enslaved me by claiming to free me.  I think I feel her breathing.

            Yes, I do.  If I were Leliana I would thank the Maker.

            I lift myself on my arms, unable to stand, and turn as best I can to look behind us.  There is nothing where they were but char.  He is gone, then.  So ends the foolish, strong boy who was almost king.  So ends the one human man my Warden trusted.  It is a better death than his brother’s.

            She knows without looking.  She is sobbing, still curled against the stones.  I bend over her again, trying to embrace more than I lean.  I let her speak first, which takes some time.

            “He – he begged me to let him do it.  He said – I had more to live for.”

            It is not safe to kiss her before the blood has either dried or been washed away.  I press my face against her shoulder.  I promise myself to make these words true, although I cannot quite say it out loud.  Instead I say, “Then it is the death he wanted.”

            She nods.  “Yes.  I think it is the death he has wanted since Ostagar.  But – ”  She begins to lose her composure again.  “But he was my King.  He was my brother.  And I let him do it.”

            She wants me to grieve this with her, to be sorry.  Forgive me, my dear Warden.  I cannot.

**  
**


	52. The Importance of Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can we have one last round of defensive missteps before we go? Sure we can! Fortunately, this time we have Shianni around to serve as the voice of reason. (sex chapter)

            Before the final battle, before everything went to pieces, Zevran gave her his earring.  His one real personal possession.  She knew what it meant:  she put it on immediately, while he was still making his idiot noises about how she could sell it if she wanted to.  She had never taken it off since, and he’d decided it meant that everything was understood between them.

            But now the great task was done, and things did not seem to be that simple.

            “It occurs to me that I cannot stay forever in Denerim,” he told her.  It was a sort of irony:  alive and obedient or dead, he was an object of little worth, but alive and _free_ , he was an insult to the honor of the Crows that they would never be content to leave unresolved.

            He would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, and… and he could never ask that of her.  But her face was already starting to cloud over, and neither could he tell her to leave him.  He could never _tell_ her to do anything.  So he stood there quiet for a moment, lamenting once again his inability to speak his heart.  _Do what pleases you, my Warden, and I will be happy.  If you wander, I will follow you.  If you settle, I will orbit you like a star.  Tell me what we are to do._

            He came as close as he could.  “I thought I heard you tell Anora that you might rejoin the Wardens.”

            “If I did, would you come with me?”

            But before he could answer, she was tackled by enthusiastic family, and their conversation was cut short.  After the fuss was over, Taniva disentangled herself and introduced them all again.  He nodded politely.

            “I can’t believe you had the Queen make Shianni a _Bann_ ,” Soris cried.  “Her head’s too big as it is!”

            “Right, Soris,” the redhead purred.  “I’m the poorest noblewoman in Thedas!  Bow down before me!”

            “It’s important,” said Cyrion.  “It’s such a big step for our people.  I’m proud of you both.”

            “I know, Dad,” said Taniva, giving him a one-armed squeeze.

            “Are you going to stay in Denerim now?” Soris asked, and everyone became a bit less casual, all feeling the import of the question.  “I mean, you’re pardoned and the Blight is over, right?  Everything’s changed.  You don’t _have_ to go.”

            She hesitated to answer.  Did she _want_ to stay?  Had things changed enough to erase the pain she’d confessed to him, and make her want her home and her family again?

            How could he ever deny her those things?

            “I know it’s too soon to bring this up,” Cyrion interjected, “but I don’t doubt you’d have your choice of suitors now.  Even those self-satisfied Orlesian families would take interest.  I promise that this time I’d let you meet them before we agreed.”

            Shianni grimaced.  “I’m pretty sure it _is_ too soon, uncle.  Especially since – ” but she was interrupted by Taniva’s elbow jabbing her in the chest, and she fell silent.

            Taniva was looking at him.  Waiting for him to say something.  His permission, perhaps, his blessing.  He gave them his best false smile.  “It is wonderful to find yourself with so many options.  Do what you think is right, my Warden.”

            “I.”  She did not look satisfied with his answer.  “I will have to think about it.”  A false smile of her own, less polished than his.  “Pardon me.  I am told I have other appearances to make before I can relax.  Enjoy yourselves.”  She pecked Shianni on the cheek and hurried away.

            That left him alone with her family.  The men plied him with the typical sorts of questions.  _So you’re from Antiva?  What’s it like there?  That tattoo isn’t Dalish, is it?  What does it mean?  What did you do for a living before the Blight?  Who’s your family?_   He gave the blandest answers he could without being flagrantly dishonest.

            The noise of the front doors opening and closing distracted him.  She was going out into the crowd, without him at her back.  She knew as well as anyone by now how easy it was to get past Ferelden guardsmen if one was motivated enough.

            Without warning, Shianni was pulling him aside.  “Government business,” she told her brother and uncle.  “I’m a Bann, you know.”  And off they went into a side room, where she shut the door behind them, then crossed her arms at him as if he were a disobedient child.

            “Andraste’s tits, you’re both as dumb as rocks.”

            “Please enlighten me.”

            “ _Taniva._   Come on, now.”

            He cleared his throat.  “What do you know about me and Taniva?”

            She rolled her eyes at him.  “Right, because we _didn’t_ grow up as sisters, so we _never_ talk about things like that.  Why didn’t you say something when Cyrion was prattling on about arranging a marriage for her?”

            His chest was starting to hurt.  “And what is it you think I should have said, my lady?”

            “I don’t know, how about _Don’t marry some stranger, I love you?_ ”

            Yes, pain.  It was starting to feel like the rack without the need for a cumbersome machine.  “I have no right to tell her what to do.”

            Shianni’s eyes rounded.  “You’re _dumber_ than a rock.  I’m impressed.  She wanted you to say it!  That’s what she was waiting for!”

            He crossed his arms in front of him, as if to hold his aching ribs together.  “No.  She would know I couldn’t.”

            “Right, too scary for the big assassin.  You’re both so defensive, you know?  And you’re going to defend yourselves right out of what you want unless one of you snaps out of it.”  She snapped her fingers in front of his face.  “But she’s taken a lot of chances on you already, and you’re still waiting.  It’s your turn, Zevran.  You’d better take it while you have the chance.  Tell her what you want for once.”

            With that, Shianni slipped back out of the room and left him there alone with her words.  She was right, of course.  He was afraid.

            This was not a test, and there were no witnesses:  the moisture he had to wipe from his cheeks offended no one but himself.

 

            He found her in her room in a dressing gown, ceremonial armor already put away.  She was sitting at the vanity staring at herself, a forlorn expression on her face.  When she saw him in the mirror, her hand unconsciously reached up to the earring.

            For reassurance?  Or with thoughts of giving it back?  No, no, this was no time for cowardice.

            “Admiring your own beauty, my Warden?  It does merit a good, long look.”

            “No, not really.”  She turned, but not all the way to face him.  Her voice was quiet, morose.  “Hello, Zev.”

            “So, I… it has been pointed out to me that I never tell you what I really want.  I suppose that is true.  But I thought you knew why.”

            She closed her eyes.  “I do know.  But this is important, Zev.  For this, I need to know for sure.”

            “I have never told _anyone_ what I wanted since I was seven years old.  I am only just learning to recognize it myself.”

            “I know.  I’m sorry.”  Now she was clenching her fists, breathing more deeply.  Seizing control of herself.

            “Ah, Maker, don’t be _sorry._   Don’t cry.  I will try.  I am trying now.”

            She sighed and nodded.

            “You know that I am not accustomed to _wanting_ things.  It goes against everything I know.  I will… this will be ludicrous.  You know that.”  He exhaled in a long hissing sigh as he tapped into the forbidden part of his mind.  “Very well.  I want the Crows to forget I ever existed.  I want to see Antiva City again.  I want to be the _King_ of Antiva.  I want the Dalish to have a large, rich homeland in which they all wear nothing but jewelry.”  He could hear his voice rising.  “I want to find _one_ place in Ferelden where they cook fish correctly.  I want to follow you everywhere you go until I am dead, and wake up every morning with you curled against me.  I want to father a hundred children with you and raise them all to be unholy terrors capable of taking over Denerim.  I want – ”  He broke, unable to continue.  It was too much.

            There was a long, painful silence in which she only looked up at him, eyes startled and soft.  “I will only be able to help you with some of those,” she said at last.

            Everything inside him was confused and screaming.  She held her hands out to him, and he took them and knelt before her, touching his forehead to hers.

            “Don’t fight it,” she whispered, stroking the sides of his face.  “It makes it worse.”

            He laughed.  “Ah, another of these.  These principles are so hard to recognize in different contexts, aren’t they?”

            “I only need to know one thing, Zev.  Now that you are familiar with wanting.  If it were your choice, would I marry some nice elven boy to please my father, or would I not?”

            His throat was tight.  “It is not my choice.”

            “If it were,” she insisted.

            He closed his eyes.  “If it were… then no.  You would not marry him.”

            She seemed almost as nervous as he felt; her fingers were cool and trembling, and instinctively he covered them with his own.  “Were you telling the truth?” she whispered.  “About the following, and the children?”  He nodded, just slightly.  “Then… perhaps you would rather marry me yourself.”

            How was it possible to keep desiring her more?  “If.”  How did she make him forget how to speak?  “If that is your wish.”

            She giggled a little.  “That’s as close as you will ever get to asking, isn’t it?”  She lifted her chin a little bit, and then they were kissing, and it was impossible to tell which of them had started it. 

            “We can’t – ”  It was hard to speak and keep kissing her at the same time.  “We can’t live here forever.”

            “Good.  I hate Denerim.”  She tugged at the front of his shirt, and he happily pulled it off for her and threw it aside.

            “We can’t live anywhere.  It won’t be safe to stay in one place for that long.”  But then, to appease the selfish corner of his mind that was screaming at what a fool he was to give her excuses to change her mind, he added, “We could visit.”

            She bit the side of his neck, and he gasped at how intense that was with his nerves already rattled.  “I didn’t ask you for a _house_ , Zev.  I want _you_.”

            That was all he could bear.  He pulled her to the floor and crushed her beneath him, yanking the dressing gown open with an unusual lack of finesse that, again, he blamed on nerves.  _Ha, you see?  Weakness.  If she wanted to kill you right now…._

            But she didn’t, and he knew it.

            They reached together for his belt.  “You are the best thing that ever happened to me, _amora,”_ he rasped.

            She laughed and grabbed him by the ears.  “Use real words!”

            He had to kiss every part of her face as he teased her.  “That was a real word.  If you don’t learn Antivan, it is not my fault.”

            She was doing the same thing back.  “Yes it is.  You never tell me what anything means.”

            “Fine.  It means love.”  He moved his hungry kisses down her neck and toward her breasts.  “You see?  I did tell you.  I have been telling you for months.”

            “In a language I don’t understand,” she pouted, her fingers in his hair, pleasantly flushed from his attentions.  “It doesn’t count.”

            “Am I responsible for your poor education?  Fine, fine, let me think, what else have I said?”  He started working his way back up to her face, slowly.  “Good, sweet, beautiful, a lot of things like that.  Tight.”  He parted her legs with his.  “I adore you.  I want to make love to you forever.”  He smiled, pressing against her without entering, savoring the impatient eagerness in her face.  “You see?  It sounds much nicer in Antivan.”

            She bit his lip, and he chuckled and slid into her, and that was an end to joking.  He raised her arms above her head and twined their fingers together, and forced himself to move slowly, to stretch the moment out as long as he could bear.  It was perfect; it was more than he had ever dared to want.  Her eyes were so gorgeously tender now that the last shield was gone that he almost wished he had dared to tell her sooner.

            Deeper.  Slower.  It was tortuous; she bucked against him and thrashed her head back and forth, desperate to compel him to move faster.  They were both trembling and moaning by the time he relented, and at full speed they were frantic, clinging by teeth and claws to each other.  Lovely, wild creature.  Of _course_ she hadn’t really wanted to settle down with a nice, placid stranger in Denerim.  She was his Warden.  …She was _his._

            As breathtaking as it was, he was almost disappointed when he came.  He really had wished they could keep going forever.  He all but collapsed over her, nuzzling the side of her throat wearily.

            Her fingers traced slowly down his spine, and she gave him a lazy smile.  “At this point, I would be more comfortable if we moved to the bed.”

            He brushed his nose against hers.  “You see, this is how it begins.  You agree to marry the girl, and instantly, she wants to sleep in a real bed.  What are you going to want next, woman?  Food?”

            “You are going to be thoroughly punished.”

            “I am looking forward to it.”

**  
**


	53. Arise and Dress Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once again, there is a wedding in the Alienage. This one goes better. (sex chapter)

            “Tell me again why I have to do this,” Zevran frowned, tugging at the sleeves of the scratchy and too conservatively cut shirt he had been told to wear.

            Shianni smiled.  “Because this is the price you pay for having a family.  And you’re going to be honest with them, and friendly, and cooperative.  I’ll have your back, don’t worry.”

            “And why can’t my Warden be here?”

            “Because she’d be the bride.  You’re only here because you don’t have a relative to speak for you.”

            “Perhaps I could ask Wynne to – well, no.  Perhaps not.”

            “It’s going to be fine.  I’m not going to let anything go wrong.”

            Zevran saw the set of Shianni’s face and grinned.  “You Tabris women are not to be trifled with, are you?  Now, the men, I think, leave something to be d-”

            She punched his arm.  “There.  That’s just the sort of thing you’re _not_ going to say until we’re done with this.”

            He chuckled.  “Yes, ma’am.”  In his head, he distracted himself from the uncomfortable alienness of his situation by thinking about a row of daughters like Taniva and Shianni, and the devastated lovers they would leave in their wake.  But of course that led his mind back to the process of creating daughters, and the moment when he had to drag his focus away from images of the naked, moaning mother-to-be to the real presence of her father was awkward.

            “Here we all are, Valendrian,” Shianni said as they took their seats.  “Let’s make this go smoothly.”

            “Let’s make it go _well,_ ” Cyrion frowned.  “We are deciding the course of at least two lives, here, and one of them is my daughter’s.”

            Valendrian cleared his throat, and once all eyes turned to him, his turned to Zevran.  “Your family name is Arainai.  You are aware, I assume, that your line is all but dead?”

            “I am not surprised.  My father died before I was born, and no one else ever laid any claim on me.”

            “What about your mother’s family?” Cyrion asked.

            “Dalish.  I doubt they knew where I was.  Or wondered, for that matter.  They are not very sympathetic toward those who leave the clans.”

            “You do not follow their ways, then, I take it,” said Valendrian.

            “In which sense?  I believe in the Maker, and I don’t want to live in the woods.  So I am not Dalish.  I do appreciate their strength, however.”

            “Fair enough.  What have you normally done for a living?”

            Ah, now it began in earnest.  Zevran scratched at the back of his neck and sighed.  “I am an assassin.”  He paused for the inevitable gaping.  “Until recently I was an Antivan Crow, but that is no longer my affiliation.  Of late, I have primarily been killing darkspawn.  Better for the reputation, but the pay is not as good.”

            Cyrion did not look pleased.  “Do you have any other skills at all?  Something _honest_ you can do to support your family?”

            Zevran shrugged.  “Killing is very honest.  Who do I lie to?”

            “She’s the Hero of Ferelden, Cyrion!” Shianni interjected.  “Shouldn’t she be with someone who understands what she’s done and who she is?  That’s not going to be a farmer, you know.”

            “I understand that, Shianni, but it’s not as if he’s a soldier or a guard.  He’s an _assassin._   He just… kills people for money.”

            “I am not sure how this distinguishes me from a soldier or a guard.  You asked how I would support my family, and that is what I am good at.  Surely you would not rather it was something I did for free, as a hobby.”

            “He can cook,” Shianni said loudly.  “Tan told me he’s a great cook.”

            Zevran leaned back in his chair and sighed.  “That is true.  I know how to cook.”

            That seemed to mollify the older men for the moment:  they nodded sagely to each other and changed the topic.  “Cyrion,” said the Elder, “it is to your advantage in this case that he is last of his line.  Assuming that he does not mean to carry your daughter off to Antiva, you will not have to pay any dowry to his family to keep them here.”

            “Dowry,” Zevran echoed, glancing sidelong at Shianni.  There was so much he didn’t know or like about this process.

            Shianni touched his hand reassuringly.  “He just said there wouldn’t be one.  You don’t have to worry about it.”

            “Do you have any awareness of custom at all?” Cyrion frowned.

            “Not really, no.  I was raised in a whor-”

            “Horrible orphanage,” Shianni interrupted.  “Since there was no family to take him in, you know.  He wasn’t lucky like I was.”  She smiled radiantly at Cyrion, and that melted him a little bit.

            “True enough,” he said quietly.  “I suppose I can’t fault the boy for that.  Not for a love marriage.”  He studied Zevran’s face with a careworn intensity.  “This _is_ because you love her, isn’t it?  You will be kind to her?”

            “I will spoil her absurdly.”

            “They adore each other, Cyrion,” said Shianni.  “I will vouch for him.”

            Cyrion nodded.  “I accept that.  We can proceed.”

            Shianni squealed in delight.  “I’ll make the arrangements myself!  I’ll do all the things that normally fall to the groom’s family, since he hasn’t got any.”  Shianni looked over at Zevran, and with a slight shift in her tone, added, “Including guards.  Lots of guards.”

            “Indeed,” Zevran agreed, showing his teeth.  “As grateful as I am that my Warden was still single when I found her, anyone who disrupts her wedding this time will face a very gruesome death.”

            The other two looked slightly queasy.  “I’m sure there won’t be any violence,” Valendrian said.  “Let us not be eager to seek it out.  This should be a peaceful occasion.”

            “Of course,” Shianni said quickly.  “War talk.  You know where they’ve been.  Let’s get the date set, and then I can start explaining the process to Zev.”

 

            The elves of Denerim were barbarians.  They sequestered his Warden away from him for a _week_ while the preparations were made.  Taniva had donated a great deal of money to Shianni to establish herself as a proper Bann, and that combined with generous grants from the Queen made both women ridiculously wealthy for city elves.  Shianni seemed determined that this would be not only a wedding but something of a showpiece of elven culture for those _shems_ who might doubt that the Alienage should be dignified with its new status.

            Fortunately most of the pressure to make that happen was on Shianni and not the couple.  Zevran did manage to buy his own clothes, something appropriately festive in an Antivan style, and a ring for his bride, a gold band studded with garnets.  But that was not very much to do with seven days, especially alone, and by the morning of the ceremony he thought he might be starting to go mad.

            Still, the stage set by the great tree was lovely, decked with garlands of fresh flowers and ribbons.  Leliana was delighted.

            He should be with his Warden:  he should have been with her the whole past week.  However happy the occasion, it must also make Alistair’s absence more painfully obvious, and she must be missing him.  Of course, the truth was that if Alistair _had_ been alive this day would have broken his heart, but he still would have come.  Anyway, Zevran had promised the young man that he would make Taniva happy, and that would be fiendishly difficult until he was actually allowed back into her presence.

            Taniva Arainai.  That sounded lovely.  And also like very clear evidence of Zevran’s fate to anyone who might come looking for him, especially if they also kept their promise of maintaining a house in Denerim even though they intended to leave it often and for long periods.  Eventually, the Crows would come.

            …Well, let them come, then.  The life he had started to build was worth defending, and he had dealt with worse threats.

            Just as the gates to the Alienage were opened to the limited number of outside observers Shianni intended to allow, he caught sight of the bride outside her father’s house, and felt for a second as if his heart had stopped.  The colorful traditional gown was much lovelier made with good fabrics, and its brightness and the ornamental brooches across its neckline made her look fresh and glorious.  Literally ravishing.

            In fact.

            He wove through the gathering crowd as quickly as he could to reach her.  Their eyes met just before he threw his arms around her.

            “I heard you are getting married today,” he purred into her ear.  “It is not too late to run away with me.”

            She chuckled.  “I thought that was what we were doing.”

            “Do you think I am joking?”  He grabbed her hands and led her, unprotesting, back into the house.  After scanning the space to make sure they were alone, he kicked the door shut, locked it, and returned to holding her.  “A week,” he growled. 

            “I know.  I missed you.”

            “They’re not even _dancing_.  What kind of country is this where they don’t dance at a wedding?”

            “So dance with me now.”

            He smiled and led her in a slow circle around the floor, pressed tight against her, nuzzled into her dark hair.  She giggled and followed his lead gingerly, unfamiliar with the movements.  He ended with a dip, and she shrieked and then laughed out loud.  That was all he could take:  when he pulled her upright he backed her into the wall and kissed her.

            She melted into him, stroking his face with her fingers.  His lips wandered down her jaw and onto her neck.  She grabbed into the hair at the nape of his neck with one hand, and with the other started to rub at his chest.  But what she said was, “They’re going to come looking for us.  It’s our wedding.”

            He found her nipples under the fabric and caressed them with his palms.  “So they can’t start without us.”  A gentle nip at her earlobe to keep her focused on what was important.

            She answered with a throaty laugh as her hand, blessed girl, found its way down to his crotch.  “How would you say _Go away, I’m making love to my wife_ in Antivan?”

            He whispered it to her.  “ _Andate via.  Sto facendo l'amore con mia moglie._ ”

            “ _Moglie?_   Hmm.  Keep calling me _amora._   I like that better.”

            He licked her collarbone and started hitching up her skirt.  _“Si, amora._ ”

            She’d come to love that:  she shivered and pulled his hips closer against hers.  Quickly, though, she realized this was an impediment to their progress, and as she grabbed at his lip with her teeth, she pushed him just far enough away to get his pants open. 

            She giggled again.  “This is probably bad luck.”

            He didn’t care any more.  But it was true that there was no time for subtle artistry.  He pulled up on the leg she had raised to wrap around him and thrust into her, and they both moaned into their kiss in relief.  Her breathing was loud and rough, crushed between him and the wall, and standing on one leg she had to rely on him for her balance.  As desperate as they both were and as delicious as finally having her again was, the position was not ideal for him either, because of the angle at which he had to move. 

            Not that _stopping_ was an option.  The part of his mind not completely engrossed in driving their bodies together studied the problem.  If he turned her to face the wall, it would be an easier position for both of them, but it meant he would have to withdraw –

            They instinctively froze in tandem when the heard the little click.  _Key._

            A fit of closing and smoothing of clothing as the door opened, not quite finished in time to spare Soris the awareness of what he had interrupted.  He threw a hand up over his eyes with a mortified howl.

            “Yes, well,” said Taniva, as she tried to make her hair look less mussed without a mirror.  “Did you need something?”

            “Not that!  You’re lucky I wasn’t Cyrion.”  He peeked timidly over his fingers, and establishing that it was now safe, lowered his hand.  “They’re looking for you.  Everything is ready.”

            “If you thought we were in here, it would have been good to knock.”  She made one last straightening tug at her skirt, then smiled sweetly and offered Zevran her hand.  He took it happily.

            “So what,” Soris muttered as they passed him, “every time the two of you _might_ be alone in a room together, I should just assume you’re – ”

            “It might be prudent for you to do so, yes,” Zevran smiled on the way out the door.  “Unless you enjoy this kind of thing, walking in on other couples.  Some people do.”

            At least the edge had been taken off of his frustration.  He was able to last long enough now to get cheerfully through his vows, and teach some of the barbarians how to dance.

**Author's Note:**

> with thanks to Twist Shimmy, beta and co-conspirator; and to RembrandtsWife, for abetting the move to AO3


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